In This Labyrinth
by Olethros
Summary: The ALW musical and afterwards as two outsiders fatefully embroiled in the story are determined to change things for the better...and for worse. EC...finally. COMPLETE with Epilogue.
1. Part I: An Unexpected Visitor

Status September 22, 2007: This story is currently being revised although the process is being put on hold until I can find enough inspiration to give it the attention it deserves. In the meantime, I hope you will still enjoy reading it, but know that some little details may not match up... Christine's hair color changes a few times, I believe.

Our takes place in alternate universe 19th century Paris, in the world of Erik and Christine. But also the world of two other characters: feared by all and welcomed by few. You can probably guess by the first sentence in the paragraph what my preference is when it comes to pairings, but I have never been one for simple stories. If you can't stand the idea of Raoul as a decent human being, this story is not for you.

This phic will more or less follow the musical faithfully, with a few twists thrown in. Although this is more or less a crossover, I'm not going to reveal the identities of our "other" characters until later, because I don't want to lose any readers because they feel they "don't know the other story". You really need to know nothing about the other story, especially since they've been thrown into another era altogether, although knowing may help you appreciate some of the inside jokes.

Last updated: August 15, 2006

* * *

**Chapter 1 **

**An Unexpected Visitor**

Christine Daaé was tired.

_Tired would be an understatement_, she thought, as she applied an unhealthy amount of makeup to the dark circles under her eyes, _I did not believe it was possible for a human being to be so exhausted._

However, given the choice between rest and her current situation, she would gladly have put sleep off until she was dead.

She brushed her hair, humming a few bars of an aria in the process and thanked God that her voice was not in the same condition as her body. Gradually, the humming evolved into a lilting melody. Her hands drew her blonde locks into a tighter and tighter bun even as her mind began to loosen and drift among the scattered memories of the past few weeks.

She needn't have worried about her voice. It could not have been better after the training it had undergone. She knew now who the presence was that lingered within her dreams, even after the voice had bid her goodnight. She knew why she awoke every morning feeling physically tired but mentally happier than she had ever been since her father had died.

"Angel of Music…" she sang absently as she inserted several bobby pins with practiced ease to hold the bun in place.

Last night, however, had been different from all those before. She had _seen_ him at last.

There had been a particularly violent storm, and she had been sleeping in her dressing room, afraid to venture home in such awful weather. Her Angel had been singing to her, his hands parting the dark cocoon of her dreams like cobwebs as he withdrew pain from her heart like venom from a wound. She had opened her eyes then and had seen a face, white and bright as the light of Heaven. The expression of the face did not change as she looked upon it, but she imagined it had smiled.

She had only glimpsed half of her Angel's face; the other half had been hidden within the shadows of sleep. And before she could move to look upon him fully, the voice had died away and Christine's eyes opened moments later only to gaze upon her reflection in the mirror across the room.

Now, as she pulled on the long flowing skirt of a Carthaginian slave girl, her bright blue eyes sparkled, and she laughed aloud. Despite her bloodshot eyes and drawn skin, she had never felt more alive. Her dear father had kept his promise at last!

A pounding on the door interrupted her reverie – insistent and peevish – an undeniable sign of an incredibly impatient young woman.

"Christine! Rehearsal starts in five minutes. Ohhhh, you're going to be late!"

Throwing a scarf around her hair, Christine made a few last adjustments to her appearance. "I'm on my way, Meg. Don't worry about me, go on ahead!" As the sounds of retreating footsteps announced her friend's departure, Christine looked once more into the mirror and officially labeled her eyes a lost cause. Still, it wasn't as if the director would be worrying about her; she was, after all, only part of the chorus. She smiled wryly as she headed for the door. Even seeing Carlotta today would not be able to dampen her mood.

As the door to her dressing room closed behind her, the shadow on the other side of her mirror retreated back into the catacombs of the Opera House. In the darkness of the underground tunnels, its small smile could not be seen. The girl's joyous mood had not gone unnoticed. The plan was progressing like clockwork, as his plans always did. He made his way through the labyrinthine tunnels by memory and began walking up the passage that would take him to his private box.

* * *

In the sweltering summer heat outside, a woman stepped from the black carriage parked alongside the Place de l'Opera. She was given a wide berth at once. The vehicle pulled away after the woman had finished speaking to the occupant inside, and onlookers everywhere breathed a silent sigh of relief as if a dark shadow had just passed with the carriage.

The stranger stopped in the middle of the square outside the Opera Populaire and looked around her. The people she caught in her gaze either slid silently into various shops and alleys or glanced back warily.

Her careful posture and fine dress gave away her identity as an aristocrat. Although her figure was poised and slender, one glimpse of the sun-browned face within her shawl quickly informed anyone that she was not of the classic simpering, powdered stock. Her eyes were blue and gleamed with something bordering on ferocity. Several strands of long auburn hair could be seen pressed to the side of her face with sweat.

A black smudge high on her left cheekbone would have been mistaken for dust at first glance.

The heavy layers of her dress concealed the wiry strength that lay within her body, something that she was content to keep hidden until the need presented itself.

Her posture made her seem taller than she was and her rich blue dress and sparkling sapphire earrings garnered not a few awestruck glances from passing noblemen. Until their wives noticed. For that matter, the aristocrat women regarded her with a mixture of jealousy and suspicion. The presence of such a beautiful unescorted woman evoked much whispering behind lace fans.

But all furtive glances melted into utter shock when the woman, glaring at the sun as if it burned with the very fires of hell, proceeded to remove her shawl without a second thought and roll up the constricting sleeves of her dress!

Unsuccessfully stifled gasps could be heard all around the square, and the woman smiled at the commotion she was causing. Her husband had informed her of the likely reception she would receive (as well as reminding her not to call too much attention to herself, all the while knowing it was a fruitless request), but she never expected that it would be this much _fun_.

Exposing her face gladly to the unmerciful summer sun, the woman twirled her unused parasol like a baton as she walked toward the front doors of the Opera House. She flashed grins at the noblemen she passed on her way, and they ogled like goldfish as their wives shot looks of smoldering hatred at the stranger who had dared disrupt their lives. All this led the woman to smile all the more broadly as she climbed the stairs and entered the dark coolness of the Opera House.

The darkness lasted for only a second as she passed from the entrance foyer to emerge at the foot of the Grand Staircase. She tried but failed to stifle a gasp of awe as she tilted her head back to see the ornate candelabras and marble arches that climbed up the walls to disappear into the darkness high above her. At her level, several torches burned brightly and threw the gleaming onyx and bronze of the stairs into sharp focus. The likes of this place would never be matched in the States.

_How wondrous this must look on the night of a performance!_ As she turned in an ungraceful circle to take in the sight, sweat trickled down the nape of her neck despite the coolness of the Opera interior.

"Take care, Madame. You have not even laid eyes upon the auditorium yet!"

The woman whirled around and blushed lightly to see an old man dressed in scuffed trousers and a faded shirt approaching her with a concerned expression upon his face. _Had her gawking been so apparent?_ She smiled at the man as he stopped six feet away from her out of courtesy.

"Indeed monsieur, I have never before seen such a magnificent piece of architecture." Her French was fair, although a bit bookish and stiff, obviously not her first language.

The man smiled at her. "But of course. Only something of this grandeur could satisfy the pride of Napoleon."

The woman's eyes went wide. _Surely this exquisite building was not that old? Why, the bronze did not even bear a hint of tarnish!_

"Bonaparte?"

The old man laughed, his ample belly shuddering. "Goodness no, he would not have been able to see over the rims of the boxes. No, this building was constructed by order of his late nephew Louis Napoleon."

The woman half-raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised at the way this man spoke about the former emperor. His eyes were anxious now, as if he feared he had spoken too freely in front of someone who very well could be Bonaparte's granddaughter. She reassured him with an indulgent smile. "Perhaps you would like to show me the rest of this magnificent building? I fear I would become quite lost, Monsieur…"

Her deftly phrased request worked like a charm. Buquet flustered. "Oh goodness," he said, and his hand reached reflexively to his head to remove a hat that was not there. "My apologies for neglecting proper introductions, Madame. My name is Joseph Buquet, stagehand here at the Opera House. And whom do I have the honor of meeting?"

"Madame Fell. A pleasure, Monsieur."

Now it was Buquet's eyes that went wide. "The wife of the _new_ duke…?"

The expression on her face quickly let him know that he was treading on unwelcome ground, and Buquet looked at the floor in chagrin, twisting the imaginary hat brim in his hands. Then he coughed and said, "If you would please follow me? I would be delighted to show you around. I was on my way back to my post in any case."

He turned to walk up the Grand Staircase and the woman followed him up two flights of stairs and into the grand foyer. The long hallway was dark, but that did not prevent her from admiring the many chandeliers and ceiling frescoes reflected infinitely in the mirrors paneling the walls.

"You're in luck," said Buquet, "There is a rehearsal taking place at this very moment in the auditorium."

"Oh?" she asked. "And what is the name of the production that they are rehearsing?"

"It is called _Hannibal_."

The woman tripped on the thick carpet but quickly regained her composure. "The Carthaginian general?" she asked lightly.

"Who else?"

The woman did not respond but resumed her perusal of the luxurious foyer. As they passed through the Dome of Night and down another flight of stairs, finally approaching the doors that would lead them into the main auditorium, the woman heard faint singing that grew louder as Buquet pushed open the doors.

The man obviously expected her reaction and paused in his stride as the woman stopped dead at the sight. Draped in shadow, the auditorium of the Paris Opera House was a scene of subdued grandeur. The darkness near the ceiling was lit only by the muted lamps of the massive chandelier as her eyes tilted up and up to peruse the red velvet-lined opera boxes.

As her eyes alighted upon a box far, far stage right, she briefly thought she saw something inside it, something darker than even the shadows.

Then her thoughts turned back to the stage as both women's and men's choruses broke out into full-throated song. She watched as a corpulent man dressed in full armor, apparently the one playing the role of the ill-fated pachyderm-riding general, approached an equally large woman.

This woman had to be the prima donna, as evidenced by the three-foot radius around her where no one dared to tread and the extravagance of her costume, which out-glittered all others. The Duchess shuddered slightly as she saw the prop that the woman was carrying. It was a severed head.

"That is Carlotta Guidicelli," said Buquet. She nodded slightly in acknowledgement and watched as three important-looking men proceeded to walk out onto center stage. In the commotion that resulted, she learned then that two of the men were Andre and Firmin, the new managers of the Opera House. The other man was the previous manager who was resigning his position. ("Why?" she asked. Buquet shrugged and did not speak.)

She watched the scene unfold on stage until the ballet mistress angrily rapped her cane against the stage and ordered the new managers off. At that point, Buquet indicated that they should move backstage.

* * *

"Christine Daaé! Concentrate, girl!" snapped Giry, the ballet mistress, as she rapped her cane against the stage again.

Christine muttered a quick apology and fell back into correct step for the dance, shaking her head at Meg's questioning look. She had been watching the woman who had walked into the theater with the stagehand. Something about her elegantly disheveled appearance and her sparkling eyes drew her gaze. She kept the woman in her peripheral vision as she danced, smiling slightly as she observed the woman's reaction to the extravagance of the auditorium. Christine's reaction had been the same the first time she had seen the Opera House. She had clutched her father's hand as she took in the beauty around her with delight and fear. She had known then exactly that she wanted to stay here the rest of her life.

Not that her position was much now, but it would keep her happy. Ever since she had heard her Angel, she knew that she would be happy.

When the stranger looked towards the stage right boxes, Christine's eyes followed hers. And saw the shadow. Her body shuddered and she fell out of step.

* * *

"Think of me, think of me fondly…"

Carlotta was singing. And Madame Fell's hands were twitching. The prima donna's voice was not _bad_ per say, but she could not help wincing at the arrogance that dripped from every note. Carlotta sang for the same reason, as she later discovered, that the diva had five-inch heels custom-made for each of her costumes: so that she could look down from her glory upon the commoners. Perhaps it was time to discuss the Opera's arrangements with her husband, if only to prevent the catatonic shock that would surely result should he ever be subject to such a performance.

The woman tripped on the rickety staircase in the rafters that she was climbing and shouted as her feet dangled over empty space, her hands wrapping instinctively around the central pole of the winding staircase. Buquet was beside her at once.

"Madame, please take my hand. Oh dear…" The woman grabbed his hand and succeeded only in pulling off his glove. "I never should have let you come up here." He grabbed her again and this time was successful in seizing her left wrist. The woman swung herself back onto her step with surprising grace and rebalanced herself on the stairs, her hands searching for support. Her right arm knocked against a cable, and Buquet heard something become unhooked.

"_Merde_," he cursed softly as the woman steadied herself. Both of them watched as the backdrop she had knocked loose fell and crashed to the stage floor, inches from Carlotta's head.

_Pity_, thought the woman, _a few more inches to the left and I wouldn't have had to listen to her again for awhile_.

And then the shouting started.

_He's here: the Phantom of the Opera!_

The woman turned to Buquet questioningly. He shrugged. "A story made up by the ballet girls to scare each other. They say there is a ghost who has made the Opera his home. And if the Opera is not run the way he likes, bad things start to happen." He snorted. "In my opinion, all the ghost has done is to increase everyone's paranoia. You might want to get behind me, Madame. They will be looking back here."

She nodded and stepped behind Buquet on the staircase, her blue dress blending into the darkness of backstage. The backdrop was raised, revealing her guide just as Buquet hurriedly snatched up some ropes in his hands and tried to look busy.

The former manager was beside himself. "Buquet! For God's sake, man, what is going on up there?"

The woman heard Buquet shout something back at them in a tone that clearly said: _A ghost, what does it look like, you dunderheads?_ Although not in so many words.

"Might as well indulge them," he said after the backdrop was let back down. "I think it would be good if you didn't stay around. Lefevre might believe me, but those new managers aren't as gullible yet."

The woman was going back down the stairs and suddenly stopped. "Is _that_ why he is leaving? Because of some Opera Ghost?" She turned back towards Buquet, but he had gone, clambering up the rest of the stairs and was in the process of retying the backdrop. Her eyes narrowed as she made her way back down. She could hear Carlotta making another scene on stage and heard her storm off. _Good riddance_. More arguing from the other side of the backdrop.

"Christine Daaé could sing it."

She heard the sentence, muffled by the barrier. Brief silence and then she heard the voice. She stopped dead in her tracks and did not move until the disembodied voice had finished the song.

She heard the muttered sounds of approval and a brief smattering of applause. She winced. Her mind was still spinning from the glorious plane to which the music had elevated her and the tinny sound of clapping hands was grating. In the weeks before they had moved to Paris, Madame Fell had been subject to thorough lessons in more culture and music than she had believed existed. If her tutor had been anyone other than her husband, she might have died of boredom before they had finished the Baroque era. Instead, she had grown to appreciate the exquisiteness of her new indulgence and had developed an ear nearly as refined as her husband's. Yes, _this_ was music.

The so-called Opera Ghost certainly wasn't doing his job properly.

* * *

He had stayed silent in Box 5 through it all, raising an eyebrow when the ballet girls had started shouting. He did not know what had occurred, his eyes having been focused on _her_ on the stage, but this was a most fortunate turn of events. He had heard his Christine sing as the main role. He had watched the reaction of the managers; they had been impressed. No doubt they would let her sing it for the gala. It would be disastrous to cancel the event. There was no way the new managers would stand to leave such a tarnished first impression upon the socialites.

Idly, he wondered if Andre and Firmin would follow the good advice of Mme. Giry. Lefevre had been a most faithful patron, and he was irked at his departure. It was such a bother to engender proper respect in new managers. However, he didn't deny that it would be fun. It had been such a long time since he had acted as a proper ghost should.

A flash of blue, stage left. He who missed nothing that occurred in his Opera House (he conveniently chose to ignore the falling backdrop), shifted both masked and unmasked eyes toward the woman who was carefully leaving the auditorium. She was a stranger to him. He allowed his eyes to linger upon her retreating figure for a few more seconds before turning away. She would be back. He had seen her face: it had been aglow with the power of music.

After casting one last look at Christine, the Phantom of the Opera left his box via the hollow column and made his way back to his lair. There were several notes he would need to pen soon.


	2. Many Meetings

Last updated: August 17, 2006

**Chapter 2**

**Many Meetings**

Barely half an hour's ride from the heart of Paris, three-quarters of the boundary of the Fell estate consisted of a curving creek that flowed beyond the meadows and lawns of the estate. The rest of the boundary consisted of a medium-sized forest that pressed against the gardens at the back of the mansion. Dark-leafed ivy grew over the entire front of the house, binding the stone in a lover's embrace. The lawns and gardens were well-kept, but they were not extravagantly manicured: the more colorful flowers were kept out of sight behind the house. The Duke did not like to attract unnecessary attention.

_Nor do we need to_, his wife thought as she rode towards the estate in a taxi. _We're getting enough gossip as it is. You would think that new nobility would no longer be such a surprise to Parisians. _Old-style feudalism had long ceased to exist and the current price for a title of nobility was now no more than a decent amount of well-directed cash or the goodwill of a highborn friend. A noble name no longer held much importance in society, not ever since the war.

She supposed that their appearance in Paris had caused so much gossip because of the rumors concerning the mysterious disappearance of the former Duke and Duchess whose house they now owned…

The woman smirked as the jostling taxi drove over the stone bridge crossing the width of the creek. Let the gossips talk. They would discover nothing that the Duke and his Duchess did not wish to reveal. She turned her face to the west just in time to see a flock of pigeons rise from a lawn to fly towards the setting sun. She sank into her taxi seat with a sigh of contentment. She had been uneasy about moving to Europe since the very first time her husband had raised the option. Of course, she had known that it was for the best. It would have been unwise to stay in the States for much longer.

Now she felt as if she belonged nowhere else.

Her heart leapt within her as she spotted the strange carriage parked outside the front gates. They had not had visitors since they had moved in a week ago. The stab of fear faded after she realized that if they were here for her husband, there would be a lot more of them. Curiosity replaced her fear as she stepped from the taxi and paid the driver.

She approached the visitor's carriage as she made her way to the gates and stroked the restless black horses. Their eyes flashed even as they whickered softly and accepted sugar from her palm. These were horses of a young nobleman: proud and full of spirit. Even more intrigued, the woman pushed open the wrought-iron gates in front of the stone mansion and walked up the front steps.

Mariana, the Spanish maid, came forward immediately to take her shawl and parasol and said, "Your husband is currently seeing a guest in the study. They have been there for about fifteen minutes now."

The Duchess nodded in acknowledgment as she crossed the hall and pushed open the door of the study, announcing her arrival with a soft knock.

The two men turned to look at her as she entered. One of them, a dignified older gentleman dressed in full eveningwear, came out from behind his desk and extended his hand towards her. He did not look at all annoyed that she had interrupted their session. In fact, his maroon eyes positively danced with devilish amusement as he bent to kiss her left cheek, right above the black smudge that was not dust. "Welcome home, my dear. You're early."

She smiled at him, her eyes telling him that she would tell him of her day later, and he nodded in return, satisfied. He then turned towards the other man in the room, who had stood when she had entered and was now shifting uncomfortably on his feet, not sure how to react to this strangely intimate scene. The man was perhaps a decade younger than the Duchess, with bright blue eyes and a boyish face that lacked the hard lines that graced so much of the aristocracy.

The Duke indicated the young man with his right hand. "Cassandra, I'd like you to meet Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, a fellow patron of the Opera."

Raoul's lips touched the back of the Duchess' proffered hand. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Madame Fell."

She smiled. "Cassandra, please. You are a friend of my husband's and therefore, I think we can dispense with formalities."

"Cassandra then," Raoul laughed as he turned to face the Duke once again. "You made no mistake, monsieur. She is a worthy lady indeed."

She raised her eyebrows at her husband who did nothing but fix a blank and utterly unreadable expression on his face in return. She shook her head in amusement. Typical of him, really, walking circles around strangers, implanting flawless first impressions in their unsuspecting minds. _Might as well play the role_. The Duchess smiled and said with bright domesticity, "Perhaps some drinks, gentlemen?"

Her husband took a glass of water from his desk and lifted it towards her. "We're quite well, but you look as if you could use some refreshment."

She accepted the drink wordlessly and settled herself into a comfortable armchair. Raoul had also reclaimed his chair and sat calmly, his posture straight and respectful, waiting for the conversation to resume. The Duke remained standing, peering out the study window at the blood-red sunset on the horizon.

"How did you first become interested in opera, Monsieur le Vicomte?" he asked unexpectedly. Apparently the two men had not yet dispensed of formalities between themselves.

"To tell the truth, my choice of patronage has not been primarily motivated by any cultural interests. I fear you would laugh if I told the truth."

"Try me."

"My childhood friend and I…we used to listen to the stories that her father told about the Angel of Music. Since then, she wanted to do nothing more with her life than to sing. She could have done so quite easily; she had the voice of an angel." Raoul's eyes grew distant before rapidly refocusing and, realizing what he was confessing and to whom, blushed slightly before he continued. "I haven't seen her since her father died. I support the Paris Opera now because I believe that is what she would have wanted."

"What was her name?" asked the Duchess, knowing the answer before Raoul spoke.

"Christine Daaé."

"Interesting surname," said the Duke, "Not French, I presume?"

"Swedish. Her father was a violinist; he was employed for a few years at the Opera Populaire."

"I see. Well, monsieur, I must confess that my own motivations for dispensing my resources into opera stem from nothing more than my individual pleasure. Would that I had a more noble reason as would befit people's expectations."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, monsieur. You have already established a rather formidable reputation amongst the gentry and nobles."

"And what do they say about me?" The cold gleam that appeared suddenly in his eyes was imperceptible to all except the Duchess.

Raoul continued speaking, innocently unaware. "They say you are rich. More so even than the kings of old. They also say that you are brilliant in your profession and that you moved to France after becoming disgusted with American culture. If I may ask, monsieur, what exactly is your profession?"

"I am a doctor, monsieur, specializing in both physical and mental maladies. And the gossip mill is surprisingly accurate about why we left America. Have you heard of a man named Andrew Carnegie?"

Raoul looked surprised. "Who hasn't?"

"My wife and I were guests at his mansion for one of his many parties. I had helped his fiancée Louise through a particularly nasty bout of pneumonia the year before. Do you know what the main entertainment was? My wife and I were each given a small pail and shovel, much like the ones a child would use to build a castle on the beach. We were invited along with all the other guests to go treasure-hunting in a massive sand pit Carnegie had constructed in an old rose bed. The 'treasures' consisted of precious stones and gems; any one of which could have paid a lifetime's wages for one of his workers. We were instructed to keep what we found. My wife and I decided to move to Europe within the same month."

"But monsieur, surely you did not think that the nobles of Paris would be any less extravagant."

The Duke smiled. "Of course not. But at least they produce more with their extravagance than the steel, oil, and barren wastelands of America."

Raoul nodded, slightly mystified by this proper man's forthright manner. Changing the subject, he asked, "Have you had a chance to meet the Opera's new managers? I'm sure they would be most eager to acquaint themselves with their newest patron."

"Not yet. In fact, Cassandra might be more familiar with them than me. She has just returned from visiting the Populaire. I know of only their names. Darling, what was your first impression of Messieurs André and Firmin?"

The Duchess drained the last drops of water from her glass and cleared her throat. "Efficient, reasonable and utterly boring men. They will serve their positions well. As for what I truly think of them, I hardly think what I have to say would be appropriate for the ears of its two finest patrons."

"Now now, my dear," said her husband, his eyes glittering with mirth. "First impressions can be deceiving."

She caught the teasing look in his eyes and chose not to react. "Perhaps."

"I would be happy to arrange a meeting if you wish," said Raoul, still completely oblivious to the wordless exchange between the couple.

"By all means," replied the Duke, returning to his desk to consult his ledger.

"I believe I will leave you gentlemen to your plans," said the Duchess, rising from her chair and hastily making her exit. She had learned enough during her week in Paris to know that the next few minutes would be a tedious flurry of formalities, headache, and paperwork. Instead, the Duchess ascended the main staircase and entered the bedroom where she proceeded to strip off her dress hurriedly before reaching behind her to unfasten the hooks of her corset. She put the dress back on after removing the restrictive object, and, for the next minute, she did nothing but savor the uninhibited flow of air through her lungs.

Downstairs, she heard men's laughter and the sound of the front door opening. She crossed to the window and peered through the drapes at Raoul's carriage departing through the front gates, his horses dancing a bit more heartily than was necessary.

She turned at the noise in time to see her husband closing the bedroom door softly behind him. He smiled at his wife's relieved expression and leaned casually against the doorjamb. He had removed his suit jacket and undone the cravat. Moreover, the stiff formality and austerity from his eyes were gone as if they had never been. "Tiring day, my dear?"

"You might say that. It's a new experience as Madame Fell. I keep thinking that my introduction needs a scythe and a skull to be complete…you don't think anyone suspects?"

Her husband scoffed. "Of course not. New nobles are made every day in France, and you should hear some of the outrageous titles that they create for themselves. No, everything is quite well, Cassandra, except, I believe, you."

She rolled her eyes. "You can stop with that as well. I would like to be linked as little as possible to that suffering prophetess."

Her husband's expression grew serious. "Of course, Clarice, I realize that today must have been…interesting."

"Indeed. Whoever came up with this invention deserves to meet a long, suffering death." Clarice gingerly held up her whalebone corset in her hand, as if it were a particularly rotten, dead thing.

He took the repulsive object away from her, his lips twitching in amusement. She truly was irresistible when she was irritated. "I am sorry. I suppose I should have had you practice walking around in it for a few days before letting you go."

"No, _thank you_. Honestly…" she sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, shooting her husband a look out of the corner of her right eye. "I know, I know I shouldn't expect any of this to be easy but…" Her mood changed completely and she flopped down on her back. "I had the most _wonderful_ day, Hannibal."

He crossed the room to sit beside her on the mattress. "I trust the Opera House was to your liking then?"

"I didn't believe you at first, Hannibal. You talked about it for days, describing it in such detail that made me think of it as a playroom for the rich and snobbish. Yet, you spoke of it with so much _love_." She sat up. "Nothing prepared me for it. If you had told me seven years ago that I would experience a moment of eternity by walking into an opera house, I would have laughed at you."

Hannibal smiled. "In that hideous accent too, I imagine."

"I have no doubt of it." Her eyes grew more somber. "However, there are certain things that need to be changed."

His smile grew wider. "And am I do conclude we are to schedule a night at the Opera as a result?"

"I migh—." The words froze in her throat as Hannibal leaned forward and unzipped the back of her dress.

When he spoke again his voice had changed completely. Its smooth, hypnotic quality had been replaced by a rasping, metallic harshness. "I have come to believe that the French made women's clothes so uncomfortable so they would be all the more eager to be rid of them." He bent to kiss the nape of her neck and Clarice drew a very short breath. "Wouldn't you agree?" He gripped the back of her head and looked into her fiery blue eyes. She felt herself drowning in his gaze before he pulled her close for a brutal kiss.

A long time later, Hannibal lay with his head pillowed on Clarice's shoulder and listened to her ragged breathing slowly quieting. "Have you ever seen the Opera, Clarice? _Really_ seen it?" His finger trailed over the pulsing artery in her neck. "I believe it is time that you did. Only this time, I insist on accompanying you. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

* * *

Raoul had scheduled Hannibal's meeting with the new managers to take place in four days time. In that time, Hannibal drove her in their carriage all over Paris, covering both Banks, taking care to make a special stop at the U.S. Embassy. She emerged from the building with a list of account numbers and aliases that her husband instructed her to memorize. 

When they entered the Opera House arm-in-arm on the appointed date and time, Clarice glanced over at her husband and was pleased to see that he could not completely hide his delight. "How long has it been since you've been here, Hannibal?"

His eyes lingered over the intricate designs of the Grand Staircase and she could almost see the structure of his memory palace shifting as he added yet another beautiful room within its hallways. He blinked, satisfied, and looked back towards her. "Sixteen years." Then he took her hand and led her through a side passage into the managers' office.

Clarice raised an eyebrow at the disarray. The room was elegant enough, with thick plush carpet and two dark wooden desks. Yet, the place was obviously occupied by people familiar and desensitized to luxurious surroundings and therefore treated it like any other office. She could see stacks of papers weighing down the cushions of elegant armchairs and sofas roughly shoved against walls to make more floor space. Hannibal sighed in exasperation when he saw the overflowing cup of coffee set directly atop an unprotected table, and, seeing as neither of the errant occupants were present, folded a makeshift coaster from a piece of paper.

After a minute of waiting, Hannibal turned his attentions away from the coffee cup and, with a secretive smile directed at his wife, began tapping on the walls of the room.

"What are you _doing_?"

"Surely you have heard of the famed Phantom of the Opera?"

"It seems as if I'm the only one who hasn't."

"Well. You need to know that he exists then. After all, every good Opera House must have a Ghost. And this is the finest one in Europe."

Clarice came up alongside him, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Who is the Phantom?"

His hands continued to move over the walls. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," he said simply.

"Oh yes you do. You don't believe in things you haven't seen with your own eyes, as a rule."

"No, I don't."

Her hopes for an explanation of his plain but ominous statement were put on hold when Hannibal rapped a certain place on the wall and was rewarded by an answering echo. "Hollow," he said with a smirk, running his hands over the deceptively solid wood. "The managers would do well never to speak too freely in this office."

Clarice's eyes were wide with wonder. "What do you know of the Phantom, Hannibal?"

"Did I say that it had been sixteen years since I've seen this place? Well, that is mostly the truth. I was here, but it was still being built. I was enjoying a summer vacation in Paris at the time—"

"Ah! The Duke and Duchess. Please excuse my tardiness."

Both turned to regard the tall, goateed man who had just crossed the threshold into the room. He was dressed in elegant clothes that fit his bearing well enough, were it not for his slightly stooped shoulders. He walked behind one of the desks and began to shuffle papers around somewhat randomly. "I am Monsieur André. I apologize that my partner cannot be here at the moment. He told me that something of the most pressing importance required his attention and would not say anything more. Please, have a seat."

* * *

They walked out from the office barely half an hour later, Hannibal noticeably irritated. "This André seems capable enough of running the place but Monsieur Firmin…well," and here he grinned at his wife, "I will reserve final judgment until I meet the man, but I am beginning to trust more and more in your assessment." 

"They could care less for the opera," Clarice said with a huff.

"Oh they care _very_ much about it. It is, after all, their livelihood. And they care enough about that so that the art of this place will not suffer too much. Not all of Paris is blind to talent, fortunately. This building is evidence enough to the fact."

"Speaking of which, what were you going to say about your experience during the building's construction?"

A smirk. "Another time, my dear." Catching the familiar stubborn, skeptical look in Clarice's eyes, he continued, "Some things are better if you discover them for yourself. Surely, you know that by now."

"You do know him then. Very well, very well, I will subject myself to this inexplicable mystery and suffer from torturous curiosity. Has anyone ever told you that you are the most exasperating man in existence?"

"Most definitely. And many times not in such nice terms. Will you take the carriage home with me then?"

"Not yet. I think I want to stay here a little longer. There is someone I wish to find."

"_D'accord_. The gate shall be left open until you return." And with that he was gone, humming the overture from _Carmen_ as he walked through the swinging front door without a backward glance.

It was a simple gesture of complete trust; so commonplace now, that Clarice did not ponder further upon its significance. Although she could have probably counted on one hand the number of husbands in Paris who would so casually leave their wives to their own devices, she had accepted by now that nothing in her relationship with Hannibal would ever be considered normal. And this made her happier than she had ever been during her life. She hoped that one day someone else would be able to share this same feeling of glorious freedom. This feeling of wholeness.

* * *

Christine sat in her dressing room taking down her hair after a particularly grueling rehearsal. However, as bone-weary as she was, she could not remember looking more forward to her private lessons with her Angel. _I've done it_, she thought, _I finally have the chance to make him and my Papa proud_. Carlotta had not shown up at all since the incident with the falling backdrop. Rumor said that she was taking a brief vacation in her home country of Spain before she chose to grace the Opera House with her presence once again. For once, Christine breathed eternal gratitude towards the diva's insufferable arrogance. 

Whether or not the mysterious Phantom of the Opera had anything to do with Carlotta's departure was of no concern to Christine. Since the incident, there had been no more accidents, although Joseph Buquet had not tired of spreading his tales and gossip whenever he could. The backdrop incident still humored him greatly, and even now, he would tell the ballet girls of how upon inspection, the rope that had held the backdrop had never been untied nor had the hook moved from its place in the wall. _How then_? The girls had asked, their eyes wide with wonder. _Magic_, Buquet had replied…_the same magic that allowed the Ghost to move around the Opera House unseen_.

However, Buquet had admitted with great disappointment when Christine had inquired, he could not tell her anything about his companion that day that Christine didn't already know. _The wife of our newest patron, she is. Wouldn't say anything else about herself though._

Mysterious. And elegant. And alone. Christine realized now the reason why the sight of that woman had struck her so at first. She was alone, and perfectly comfortable and poised in her independence. But a woman of that social class had to be married; she was too young yet to be a widow.

Christine finished undoing her hair and let the light blonde curls cascade around her shoulders, where they immediately lent a healthy glow to her drawn face. She turned upon hearing the knock on her door. There was only one person that could be.

"Come in, Meg."

The door opened all the way. "I apologize, Mademoiselle. I am not Meg, but may I have a word with you?"

Christine nodded, dumbstruck with wonder. "Come in, Madame…?"

"Cassandra Fell. The new Duchess, if you want to know. I believe we have met already, Christine Daaé, although you may not remember me." Clarice smiled as she entered and sat upon a chair by the door to the dressing room.

_This conversation should prove interesting_.

* * *

Cassandra: a prophetess in Greek mythology gifted with extraordinary powers of foresight but no powers of persuasion. Therefore no one ever believed her. Foreshadowing? Maybe, maybe not…;) 


	3. Gala and Afterwards

A/N: This chapter got to be so long that I was forced to split it into two different chapters. So, next chapter should be coming a week or less. This is partially to make up for taking longer than expected to update and partially out of guilt for neglecting to write better scenes for Erik. *hangs head in shame* ("You're forgiven, but only if I get the girl in the end," he says. Hmmm.)

I have finally finished reading Susan Kay's excellent _Phantom_ and I could not have found a more excellent depiction of Erik's life. That woman is a goddess. Of course…this messes up my mental timeline even more since she obviously followed LeRoux's chain of events. Let it be known then that there will be characters from Kay appearing in this story while the timeline remains that of the musical.

Oh, and someone was so kind to tell me that Carlotta's home country was Spain not Italy, so that has been changed.

Disclaimer: This disclaimer applies for this and all subsequent chapters. All characters belong to Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Thomas Harris. No money is being made off of this story whatsoever. I own nothing. (Much grumbling from Hannibal as I write this. "Especially not me. I protest against this outrage. You've made me almost _likeable_." Oh shush it, you'll get your chance for fun later…yes, yes I promise, now go prepare dinner for your wife.)

----------

Chapter 3 Gala and Afterwards 

The same thought had run through both their minds, although Christine was still beside herself in anxiety. It still felt as though a ghost from her past had walked through her door. _Not that _that_ should be new to you now_, she thought. Not after her Angel…

She fumbled for something to say as the elegant woman sat down in a chair by the door. "Can I offer you anything, madame? A drink? A more comfortable chair?" she said, not having a clue where she would get these things if the woman did in fact request them.

"I'm quite alright, thank you."

Christine continued to shift in her chair, unable to comprehend her sudden nervousness. Yes, she was talking to a noblewoman. That in itself had to be nerve-wracking. It was something…more, though. She felt like she did the time when her Angel had first sung to her. She looked up to find Clarice looking at her kindly, if a little worriedly, and she flushed. _This is ridiculous. She seems like a very nice person after all_. And with that thought, her childish instincts took over, much to the relief of her beleaguered reason, which was more than happy now to take a spectator's position to the scene that unfolded.

"First, Mademoiselle Daae, I must tell you that you sounded beautiful when I heard you sing four days ago. Your voice is so powerful and crystal-clear."

She replied almost instinctively, years of etiquette drummed into her from an early age moving her lips and forming words. "Thank you, madame. May I ask if you sing as well?"

"Me? Oh no, I couldn't carry a tune to save my life. But that doesn't mean I can't recognize talent when I see it." She smiled warmly, and Christine could feel herself relax. But Clarice's next statement left her stiff with shock once more. "Or lack thereof. Speaking of which, I've heard that the former prima donna has left the country. What a pity."

Christine could almost taste the sweet venom in her voice. "Oh, it is only for the time being. I'm certain she'll be back within a week. Carlotta is a big name and the Opera would be insane to lose her." _What are you saying, you silly girl?_ Her reasoning mind that had until then lay dormant could not resist objecting profusely to the words she had uttered. She ignored it.

"Mmm, perhaps," was all that Clarice said to that. "You will be singing her part in the gala though."

"It…it appears so," Christine stammered.

Clarice lifted her hands from her lap in a gesture of peace. "Mademoiselle, you may speak freely in my presence, I am hardly likely to report you to the managers for any reason. Not when I look forward to you singing in the gala tomorrow night more than anything. I did notice that you sounded a little nervous when you first sang La Carlotta's part; you really shouldn't be."

"I apologize, madame. It's just that…my teacher is not the easiest one to please." _Damn! Where had that come from?_

"Please give your instructor my compliments then. He, it is a he?" Christine nodded her assent. "He would be insane not to recognize the amazing job you are doing."

Christine could find nothing to say to this, yet an uncomfortable silence was avoided when Clarice spoke again. "I trust you have already heard of my husband and mine's interest in the Paris Opera House?"

"Oh yes, and if I may say so, it must have been a considerable interest. Andre and Firmin could not quite keep their voices down for joy over your investment. We could hear them celebrating all during rehearsal last week."

Firmin apparently not pleased enough to grace them with his presence though... 

"Well, mademoiselle Daae, because of our interest, I will be at the Opera House quite often from now on. My husband prefers working from his desk but I find such an approach utterly unsatisfying. It is my job to make sure that everything is well. Therefore, if there is ever anything you need, do not hesitate to ask me."

"Madame…I-I thank you. But why—"

"The Opera is nothing without its star," Clarice said, smiling.

Something about the way she said it killed any argument Christine might have harbored. Clarice nodded and stood up from her chair. "Then I bid you goodday, mademoiselle. I look forward to tomorrow night. Remember what I said." Clarice paused on her way out, her hand resting on the edge of the door. "Mademoiselle Daae…" she took a deep breath and her next words slipped from her lips as of their own volition, "…don't worry. Your father hears you."

Christine's eyes went wide and her mouth felt dry. "How…?"

Clarice turned and pointed to the silver-framed black-and-white photograph set atop the dresser in the room. The photo depicted a man in his late thirties holding the hand of a young girl. His eyes were strong and warm. The girl clutched a violin in her other hand. Clarice gestured toward the photograph in explanation before shutting the door behind her.

I looked into her eyes and I knew immediately. They were the eyes of one who has sunk into the pits of despair and is just beginning to claw her way out. That hope in her eyes...barely masked by an instinctive wariness. That wariness will not keep her safe.

Oh yes, and she is hiding something as well. That much was obvious from the start.

Clarice clenched her left hand into a fist, her lips set in a fierce line. She dragged herself away from the door and set off down the hallway.

In the shadows of a nearby passageway, Erik silently watched her leave. He had heard everything that had transpired in Christine's dressing room and was sufficiently intrigued to follow the woman as she made her exit.

Cassandra Fell...Fell...where had he heard that name before? 

His musings were cut short when he saw the woman lean against the wall of the hallway and wrap her arms around herself as if she were cold. Her lips moved soundlessly, and Erik had to hold his breath to hear what she was saying. When he was able to hear, her words chilled him to the core.

"Christine Daae…she is so much like me, that girl. She doesn't know, oh God. They will crush her dreams as easily as they make them, and they will never think on what they have destroyed…oh Christine, why? Why must it be you?" Her eyes filled but she did not weep as she continued to hug herself against the inner chill. "I wish…" she bit her lip and did not finish the thought.

Then Erik received a jolt of fear as she seemed to stare right at him. Her eyes narrowed as they peered into the shadows, and she shuddered again. He shrank against the wall even as the woman turned and walked out into the foyer, her heels clicking sharply upon the wooden floor.

Erik remained where he was long after the woman had gone, but Christine did not seem inclined to leave her dressing room anytime soon. Sighing in disappointment, he turned and lifted the trapdoor in the floor of the hallway and slipped into the labyrinthine tunnels underneath the Opera with practiced ease.

That Fell woman, Duchesse de Londres, wasn't she? He had heard whispers and gossip about the new patrons from the managers' office but had not laid eyes on the Duke yet.

_What on earth was his wife doing prowling around the Opera House by herself, anyway?_

What she had said had struck a chord, that was for sure. But…_Ha, what did she know?_ It was he who had made Christine what she was now. He who had lifted her from the living hell she had consigned herself to after the death of her father. He who had watched her grow and shatter the boundaries that others had set for her. And he would stop at nothing now to ensure her success, nothing.

But that still didn't explain the dread he felt at the woman's words.

_Don't think about it_.

Erik took the tunnel that would lead him backstage. It was time to check that everything was in order for the gala.

---------------

The night of the gala rolled around like Paris' long-awaited Christmas present. The streets around the Opera House were crammed to the bursting point with carriages and taxies. Drivers scurried around like crabs at low tide in their efforts to control the rate at which vehicles disgorged their passengers in front of the looming Italian-style façade. It was the biggest showing since the opening of the building.

"It is because of the new managers," Hannibal told Clarice as he helped her from their carriage. "All of Paris has turned out to observe how the change will affect the Opera. And of course to curry favor with dear messieurs Andre and Firmin." They had ascended the front steps and entered the room of the grand staircase. "Some of these people," he said, gesturing to the elegant, sparkling throngs crowded all around the staircase, "will not even see the performance. For them, it is far more important to be merely seen amongst this portion of society."

Despite the Fells' best efforts to maintain a low profile as they made their way up the staircase towards their box, various gazes inevitably turned their way. Although the Duke was of very average height for the day and age, his posture made him appear much taller than he was. His wife, dressed in an unadorned gown of cream-colored material, nevertheless outshone the glittering rhinestones and diamonds of the other women in the crowd. The sheer power of their presence did, however, make it quite easy for them to pass unhindered up the crowded staircase.

They were relatively undisturbed until monsieur Andre seemed to dart out from nowhere and insist on shaking both their hands until they were almost wrung off their wrists. A photographer appeared out of nowhere and would have happily snapped off several images for next day's edition of _L'Epoque_ had Hannibal not intervened.

The man was actually in the process of taking a picture when Hannibal turned to him, his eyes flashing with warning. "No photographs, monsieur," he said, with coolly controlled fury. The man gulped and beat a hasty retreat. If Andre was confused by the attitude of his newest patron he did not show it.

Firmin showed up beside his partner about five minutes later, and, not seeming to notice the disapproving glares he was receiving from the Fells, proceeded to comment upon the excellent turnout. "Most impressive. Monsieur Andre, I believe this calls for a celebration…oh yes, why not, we deserve it. And besides…" here he lowered his voice. "I'm not sure how much we'll be able to celebrate following the performance."

"Surely, monsieur, you are not having second thoughts? Mademoiselle Daae showed herself quite capable, in my opinion," said Clarice.

Firmin's watery, straw-colored eyes slid over to Clarice's face, and he regarded her for a moment, a blank expression on his face. "I'm happy to see that you are a fan of hers, but I'm afraid you don't understood exactly how this business works. The audience wants the person they adore, madame. They are expecting Carlotta."

"Oh surely there is nothing wrong with…new blood, monsieur. Let's let the audience make its own decision before jumping to any conclusions, shall we?" Hannibal did not smile as he said this.

Firmin merely shrugged before turning back towards Andre. "How about a glass of champagne then, friend?" Andre nodded. Firmin turned back towards Hannibal and Clarice. "Monsieur? Madame?"

"No, thank you," said Clarice calmly.

Once they were safely settled in the privacy of box 6, Clarice let loose a stream of colorful swear words that made Hannibal raise his eyebrows.

"My thoughts on the man exactly. However, you managed to word it so much more eloquently."

They sat together in the semi-darkness of their box for nearly half an hour and watched the steady trickle of people entering the theater. Soon, the sea of red velvet chairs below them transformed into a myriad of bobbing brown, white, and black heads. Out of curiosity, Clarice got out of her armchair and leaned forward against the balcony, peering into the box to their left. She could only see far enough into it to make out the solitary armchair, which was empty.

"You won't see him. Not unless he wants you to."

Clarice did not move from her vantage point. "If you won't give me any help, do keep silent, monsieur." However, there was no denying that box 5 looked just like any other expensive private box, barring its emptiness. As Clarice scanned the theater, she could see that every other box had been filled. She sat back into her armchair with a huff. "You really won't tell me anything?"

"Your maddening curiosity is touching, but no."

"Then why on earth did you tell me about box 5 in the first place?"

He smiled, showing his small white teeth. "Because I knew you would have wanted to know."

"Hannibal—"

"My dear, if anyone had told you a few years ago what I was truly like and that you would eventually be my wife, would you have believed them?"

"I would have blown their head off." Clarice took her husband's hand and entwined his fingers with hers. "Very well, I understand. I won't say I'm happy about it, but I understand."

The lights on the seven-ton chandelier dimmed at that moment and the murmur of conversation in the theater gradually died away. Clarice watched the stage hungrily as the red velvet curtain rose and Christine Daae stepped onto the stage. Even underneath all her makeup, Christine still looked pale. Clarice began cheering for her mentally. _Go on girl. This is your night_. With a single anxious glance up at the boxes, Christine began to sing. And Clarice ceased to be aware of anything else.

Hannibal Lecter, whose every sense was ten times more acute than that of the average man, was just as entranced by the music, but, when it came, he did not fail to hear the slight groan in the architecture of the building to his left. His eyes slid ever so slightly toward the column embedded in the wall that separated them from box 5. A ghost of a smile played on his features before he shifted his gaze back towards the stage.

After the performance was over, Clarice settled back into her armchair with a sigh of contentment. _I can't believe she ever doubted her skill_. "I can't believe they were ever worried that people would ask for refunds. Hannibal, that was…" Her tongue seemed to have frozen along with the rest of her senses.

Hannibal laughed. "It seems as if you are not the only one at a loss for words. Take a look across the auditorium. Our dear Vicomte seems to have received the shock of his life."

They both looked at the box across the theater to see Raoul sitting stiff as a board in his armchair. His hands were clasped together in the process of applause, and he seemed unable to pry them apart. His arms were shaking slightly.

"His reaction at Miss Daae's appearance was rather amusing. I don't think he was aware of the fact that she was living in Paris, let alone performing."

"Tell me, Hannibal. Did you watch the performance at all?"

"Enough to know that the dancing was a lamentable mess."

"Oh come on. That little black-haired girl was good." She paused. "Hannibal, would you mind if I took the time to give Miss Daae my congratulations?"

"Take as long as you like, my dear. I must find Mr. Firmin to discuss some things with him. Although," and he sneered towards the managers' box at the back of the theater, "the man is probably too blind drunk tonight for any sort of conversation. It seems as if he didn't stop at that single glass of champagne."

--------------

When Clarice found her, Christine was swamped with admirers and well-wishers all shoving flowers and various other gifts at her, and she looked absolutely bewildered. Wanting to congratulate the new diva in private, Clarice hung towards the back of the crowd until they all dispersed. As the hallway emptied, she spied Christine walking unsteadily towards her dressing room, as if in a daze. Clarice followed.

_Bravi, bravi, bravissimi_…

She saw Christine start and wondered why for a moment before realizing that the voice she thought had been part of her imagination had in fact been real. The voice had been unearthly, floating through the stone walls, effortlessly working their way into her mind. Clarice let her eyes explore every inch of the darkened hallway in which she now stood. Nothing.

She turned in time to step out of the way of the black-haired ballet girl as she hurtled past her and caught up with Christine. "Where in the world have you been hiding?" She threw her arms around her friend and whispered in her ear. She pulled back in time for Clarice to hear her say, "Who is this new tutor?"

Clarice leaned forward eagerly to hear, but Christine's answer was cut off when the door to her dressing room closed behind her. Cursing, Clarice continued down the hallway until she was standing outside the door. Somehow it seemed rude to knock at that point. She settled herself to wait until the girl came out. Minutes ticked by. An old woman walked past her and opened the dressing room door from whence the black-haired girl exited. Something about the look on her face gave Clarice the impression that Christine was in no mood to be disturbed at the moment. Yet she continued to wait long after the girl and her mother had departed.

Hearing voices, Clarice shrank back into the shadows in time to see her husband, Raoul, Andre, Firmin, and a woman who appeared to be the latter's wife come around the corner. They were all laughing, except for Hannibal who seemed to be forcing himself to grin good-naturedly. Mme. Firmin reached out to steady her husband as he stumbled in his gait, completely tipsy. Raoul reached out to take the champagne from a now green-faced Firmin.

"Gentlemen if you wouldn't mind. This is one visit I should prefer to make unaccompanied."

Andre nodded and the little group headed back the way they came, Hannibal looking extremely irritated. He saw Clarice in the shadows and looked at her questioningly. She shook her head. She would wait as long as it took. She simply had to speak to that girl…

She stared at the door that Raoul had closed behind him for what seemed to be an eternity. Surely there had to be way she could hear what transpired inside. After all, that voice had floated quite easily through the stone wall. Surely a flimsy wooden door couldn't be soundproof. Yet she continued to hang back, watching the door from a safe distance with something that resembled anxiety.

Barely five minutes had passed when the door swung open again and Raoul stepped out, smiling and high spirits. The champagne was gone from his hands. His eyes alighted upon Clarice, and he called to her. "Cassandra! Lovely to see you here!"

Clarice groaned slightly as she pulled herself away from the shadows. She wasn't in the mood tonight to deal with the lovestruck boy's ramblings. "Hello Raoul. I trust you enjoyed the performance."

"Madame, there are no words. And to think! Christine has been living in Paris this entire time, right under my very eyes."

"She remembered you, then?"

"Oh yes. We're going out to dinner in two minutes."

Clarice raised her eyebrows. Something about the way he'd said it told her that Christine hadn't had much say in the matter. "Yes well, let her know that…" She trailed off significantly as she heard the voice again, this time coming from behind the dressing room door.

Come to me, Angel of Music... 

"What the hell?"

Raoul had spoken her thoughts out loud. Clarice knocked upon the door as he reached for the knob.

"Christine?"

"It's locked!"

The door rattled and shook as Raoul pounded upon it. Clarice stepped back from the entrance, her thoughts congealing as if her mind were turning to ice. The voice that continued to sing softly through the door was identical to her husband's except for the lack of a slightly metallic undertone. She had raised a hand to her forehead, trying to soften the words pounding in her skull, when suddenly, the spell lifted as quickly as it had descended.

"Open the door, Raoul."

"I already tried it…"

Clarice stepped forward and turned the knob. The door opened easily under her hand, and the two of them stared into the dressing room in disbelief. Nothing was out of the ordinary except for two things. The half-empty bottle of champagne that Raoul had left in the room rested undisturbed on the dresser next to the silver portrait frame. And Christine was gone.


	4. Past the Point of No Return

A/N: _Ha_. It seems that I was slightly off in my calculations. Here's your trivia for the day then. The main chandelier of the Opera Populaire actually weighs _seven_ tons. It was the chandelier prop made for the musical that was "only" three-quarter tons. Goody, this makes things all the more fun.

Note to Aine Deande: I curse ff.net a million times over for eating your extremely thoughtful review, but know I appreciate it immensely.

Note to you know who: Cat.

("I'm _waiting_," says Hannibal. "Here," says Erik, handing him the Punjab lasso, "Figure out how to use this. That should take up quite a bit of your time.")

Disclaimer: Same as usual, except this chapter contains one line semi-stolen from a song by Live.

Chapter 4 

Past the Point of No Return 

Hannibal Lecter awoke at two in the morning to see his wife, fully clothed, drop face first onto the bed beside him and utter a low, drawn-out groan. She sat back upright almost immediately, cursing as she fumbled to undo the corset that had just jabbed her viciously in the stomach.

"Long day, my dear?" There wasn't a bit of anger in his tone, which instead seemed to be saturated with a dangerous amount of teasing.

Clarice gave him a look that could have pulverized rock.

He laughed at her obvious annoyance, leading her to twist her face into an even uglier scowl. "Forgive me. I was under the impression that nighttime was always your favorite time of day."

"You're treading on thin ice, _darling_."

Hannibal chuckled softly. "I wager that Miss Daae eluded you then?"

"What makes you say that?" Clarice stripped off the rest of her elegant but confining dress. "I could have been meeting a lover for all you know."

"If you were," said Hannibal, not missing a beat, "you would hardly have been so foolish as to return home at this hour and in such noisy fashion."

"Hmph."

"Besides, I never imagined that the Vicomte would be your type."

Clarice winced as she lay down and drew the covers over herself. "Gods, don't remind me. Four_ hours_ we searched the Opera House and surrounding grounds before he would consent to leave it till the morning. Needless to say, we found no trace of her. It was almost as if…" she paused, pondering her next words. She hardly noticed that Hannibal had grown perfectly still and was listening most attentively. "Well, there was that voice." She shot her husband a look. "I never knew you could sing like that."

Recognizing the closed expression on his face, Clarice sighed and buried her head in the pillow. "Good night, Hannibal," she said, her words muffled.

Hannibal Lecter lay awake long after her breathing had become steady and even with sleep; he stared silently into the darkness.

------------

Clarice awoke barely three hours afterwards. After dressing quickly, she made her way through the quiet predawn Parisian streets, ignoring the sleepy eyes that regarded her passing shadow from corners and alleyways. A light fog shrouding the road made her journey less noticeable. She shoved a handful of francs into the hands of a driver she had startled awake and held her breath as the carriage made its slow and uneven journey towards the Opera Populaire. She was determined that she would have a look around before Raoul arrived with half the police force.

Letting herself in the main entrance with Hannibal's key, Clarice took a moment to bask in the grand stillness of the building. The few candelabras that were lit threw the grand staircase into haunting relief. Nubile goddesses and muses raised their marble fingertips towards a ceiling lost in darkness. Shadows of arches and columns created an intricate web of night in which Clarice stood, spellbound.

The Opera House seemed to shrink around her, enclosing her in a cocoon of velvet blackness. Rather than making her feel claustrophobic, however, the enclosure felt like a mother's embrace rather than a constricting cage. This building, although still young, had already survived a war. The care and love and protection its builders had lavished upon it, the building now exuded from every stone.

For a moment, there were no dark secrets, no spilt blood, no ghosts. Empty of mortal men, the Opera House was nothing more or less than a symbol of love and art: the only glories of the human story.

The soft but steady sound of her own breathing gradually brought Clarice out of her state of semi-consciousness. She let her hand trail along the cool marble balustrade as she ascended the staircase.

She searched the maze of hallways of the Opera for half an hour before admitting defeat. Christine would not be found this way, and as she had left no clue as to where she had gone, it was as if she didn't want to be found. Or… The memory of the voice was still fresh in her mind. For a moment a veil of darkness was drawn over the enchanted atmosphere of the building.

Engrossed in her thoughts, Clarice nearly jumped from fright as a door burst open next to her and a troupe of giggling ballet girls ran past her in the direction of backstage. Shocked, she discovered that it was already past seven in the morning.

Having nothing better to do, she ignored her ringing ears and followed the dancers to emerge in the relative darkness of backstage. The main curtain was down. She shrank back into its shadow almost immediately after recognizing the people already present.

The ballet girls formed a semi-circle around a man that Clarice identified as the chief stagehand. What was his name again, Buquet…yes that was it. Besides his coarse, dingy workman's clothes, he was wearing a dirty piece of gray fabric around his neck (Clarice strongly suspected that it had been cut from an old piece of backdrop) and was holding a piece of rope tied in a rough noose in his left hand.

As she watched, Buquet settled the rope around his neck and thrust his hand between his neck and the noose before pulling the rope taut. He bowed overdramatically as the girls applauded. Clarice was too far away to hear his words properly as he spoke but caught the words "Phantom" and "magical lasso". Her snort of laughter nearly gave her away. So her brave and courteous guide was nothing more than a gossiping buffoon. She would not have been surprised if it had been he who had started all the Phantom paranoia in the first place. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind that she heard her own alias.

"I hear that the Vicomte de Chagny and the Duchesse de Londres were both looking for Christine for hours last night."

"Ah yes," Buquet's eyes lit up with a glow that made Clarice's insides crawl, and for a moment, she entertained the image of his head upon a silver platter. "The new patron and patroness. Tore apart the very bowels of the theater into the wee hours of the morning. Who knows whom they might have encountered down there? Or maybe they were quite content not to encounter anyone at all."

The shriek of the girls gasping and giggling simultaneously was too much for her. Clearing her throat, Clarice stepped out of the shadows of the curtain, freezing the laughter as efficiently as a midwinter blizzard. "So tell me, Monsieur Buquet," she said, arms crossed, "Does the Phantom really exist? Or is he as much a toy for your imagination as I am?"

The expression upon the man's face was priceless. Clarice savored it for a few seconds as she allowed her anger to consume her. She felt her hands twitching again and knew that her fingers ached desperately to wrap themselves around Buquet's fat neck; she reminded herself just in time that she was no longer in the States. Such an act would not be so easily overlooked here.

_Damn propriety and social status to hell_. She loathed having constantly to affix masks for the sake of society. _Loathed_ it beyond imagination! She had married Hannibal to escape all of that, only to find that she had not escaped it at all but merely given the masquerade a purpose. For those precious moments that she was alone with him, when she could let down all her defenses, she would gladly endure the false smiles and bitten-off remarks of everyday life. To maintain their dearly bought peace, she would bow to expectations.

Clarice calmed her trembling fingers in time to avoid a scene but not in time to prevent Buquet from going white as a sheet. From the look on his face, her desires had been perfectly obvious.

"I was just…was just…" he gestured helplessly with his left hand, and the old and frayed noose still around his neck broke as easily as thread. He looked down embarrassingly at the limp piece of rope.

"Then again my activities the previous night must have been just as mysterious to you as the Phantom's," said Clarice, still walking forward. The ballet girls had long since disappeared. "I wasn't even aware that you knew of them, for I noticed that you never offered to help."

Buquet was fidgeting helplessly with the rope in his hand. "Madam, I…" His shoulders slumped in surrender. "I apologize, madam. You know ballet girls; there's nothing they like more than a bit of gossip, no matter how ridiculous it sounds. I meant no harm. I would never presume to know anything about you, madam."

"You might remember that the next time you open your mouth, _monsieur_. That is, if you value your livelihood." Clarice hadn't meant to sound quite so harsh, but she had not missed the furtive glances that Buquet shot her even as he was mumbling his apology. Harmless or not, this man savored gossip and scandal of any kind.

Buquet looked at the ground at her words, mumbling.

"You haven't answered my question, monsieur."

"Que-question? Oh, oh yes…well, madam, I don't know if you'll believe me after what you've just heard, but the Phantom isn't _quite_ so much a figment of the Opera's imagination as I initially claimed. I have…seen him, madam."

Clarice saw the man's eyes light up again at his words, but this time she could tell that he wasn't being entirely untruthful. "Go on. And the theatrics are quite unnecessary."

"It was late at night, and I was clearing up backstage after a performance. You see that set of stairs over there? Well, those go down to the cellars, all five floors of them. I had been working on the catwalks and had dropped a wrench down into that stairwell. Afterwards, I went down to retrieve it and hadn't gone down more than a few steps when the Phantom appeared right in front of me walking up the stairs. We stared at each other for quite some time, and then he handed me my wrench and disappeared before my eyes!

"You should have seen him, madam. He was very tall and the black clothes and enormous cloak he wore made him seem to fairly tower over me in the darkness. A cloak like this one." He pointed to the ragged piece of fabric tied around his neck, and Clarice resisted her impulse to laugh yet again. "But it was his face that I remember most vividly. Gods, could I ever forget that face! It looked like it belonged on a corpse, madam. A freshly rotting corpse."

If Buquet had expected Clarice to react to his gruesome depiction, he did not receive quite what he expected. Clarice blinked; she pondered what Buquet had just told her and decided at that moment that the man had spent a little too much time alone. "I suppose you never touched him, did you? To see if he really was a ghost or not?"

"Er…"

"Well, did he look solid to you?"

"He looked…to tell the truth, madam, he looked as if he were made from the shadows themselves."

"Hmm, must have been a special kind of ghost then. A zombie, perhaps?"

"Believe what you will, madam. But he is here in this theater. I saw him come out of that stairwell."

On an impulse, Clarice turned towards the back of the theater to see the stairs he was referring to. That was why she nearly jumped out of her skin when the trapdoor opened in the floor three feet in front of her. Her cry of surprise froze in her throat as she beheld the sight before her.

Her first thought was that the darkness previously enclosed underneath the trapdoor was rising, man-shaped, to escape above the stage. It took her a while to realize that the figure really was a person and even then she wasn't quite sure. When he turned in her direction, she couldn't remember ever seeing him move. Her eyes were drawn instinctively to the brilliant white half-mask that covered the right side of his face, yet she also did not fail to notice the exposed cheek. Pale thought the skin was, there was no doubt that it belonged to a flesh-and-blood human.

Mystified, Clarice discovered that she could not budge, as the world appeared to roll to a stop. It was some time before she realized that the statue of darkness before her was moving. And not voluntarily. From where she stood, she could see that his gloved right hand, hovering above the open trapdoor, was trembling. This painfully human gesture nearly broke the spell. Clarice would have moved forward had she not seen the arm that rose through the trapdoor at that moment and placed its hand in the Phantom's. For Clarice had no doubts of who she was observing now, and as the arm rose and was followed by a familiar head of dark hair, several windows aligned in her mind.

The Phantom chose that moment to turn and look at her fully. His eyes were a deep, rich shade of amber: the color of the darkest honey. Her stomach lurched, and she felt as if she were drowning in a swamp of the viscous liquid. She swallowed hard even as the Phantom turned away, his long black cloak swirling around him impressively, and led a half-dazed Christine in the direction of her dressing room. He paused to sneer at Buquet's cloak.

Long after the sounds of their passage had faded away, Clarice and Buquet remained staring into space like mindless idiots. She was the first to recover, managing a small laugh that made her sound as if she was choking on something. "Well, M. Buquet, I'm afraid I will have to reserve judgment on the rest of your description until later. But for now, I'm willing to suspend disbelief."

A sound from the other side of the stage made them both whirl around like skittish children. Clarice recognized the old woman who had collected the black-haired dancer last night. The woman's hands covered her mouth and she looked very pale. "Ohh, Joseph, Joseph, you've really done it now. I've warned you so many times about that sort of gossip, and now look what has happened. Madam," she said, talking to Clarice now, "I am so terribly sorry that you had to see this. It is truly unfortunate."

"Unfortunate, madam? I'm afraid I don't quite understand you. I also don't believe we have been introduced. I am Cassandra Fell."

The woman nodded slightly, her eyes still staring fearfully down the corridor into which the Phantom and Christine had disappeared. "I know who you are, madam. The entire Opera staff knows who you are, and we are most grateful. I am Madame Giry, leader of the corps de ballet."

"Was that your daughter then, whom you collected last night?"

She looked mildly surprised at the question. "Yes, yes she was. Meg is a promising dancer, if she could only stop gossiping with the singers long enough to practice properly."

Clarice could tell that Giry said all this merely for the sake of hearing her own voice. She could see the ballet mistress' hands still shaking. Buquet had remained silent; his face still lacked some of its usual coloring.

"NOOOOO! Oh God, no!"

The tension was broken at once and all heads turned in the direction of Christine's dressing room. Buquet and Giry automatically stepped forward, but were cowed into stillness by Clarice's sharp glare.

"No, stay here," she said, staring pointedly at Buquet and hardly recognizing the authority that oozed from her lips. "The last thing we need is for Mlle. Daae to become subject of the newest bit of gossip."

"But, but, madam. You don't know what could be happening to her…" he grimaced.

"Trust me, monsieur. It will be much better for you if you do as I say." Clarice instinctively shifted her right leg as she said this, feeling the familiar weight against her thigh. Without another word, she whirled and fairly ran down the hallway, hardly noticing the huffing and puffing of Mme. Giry as she followed.

She had made her decision without thinking, but now as she neared her destination, her reason returned full force to assail her mind. _What on earth has possessed you, to make you think that you can care for this girl you've known for barely a week?_ Well, she could answer _that_ easily enough, and it had nothing to do with friendship. The young woman's scream was familiar to her ears: it was the same helpless, desperate cry that Clarice woke to on every single one of those nights when _they_, the lambs, plagued her dreams. The thought made her run even faster, cursing the constricting dress around her ankles.

The door to Christine's dressing room slammed against the wall as Clarice flung it open wide in her haste, and the flimsy wood shuddered from the impact. Christine herself was already sitting upright on the couch she had risen from, awakened by her own scream, and the door served only to make her shake even more violently.

"Mademoiselle Daae! Christine! Christine!" The young woman turned toward her, her mouth white around the edges and her eyes red-rimmed with tears. And then Clarice had stepped forward and enfolded the young woman in her arms, feeling Christine's rapidly beating heart through the fabric of her dress. "Shhh, it's alright, dear, I understand…"

Christine could not stop her shaking completely but found her hysteria easing in this woman's embrace. She was dimly aware of Madame Giry standing in the doorway, transfixed. "Oh madam, that face! I could see it in my dreams, that face!" She succumbed to sobbing again at this point, shedding tears of bitterness and frustration. "You must think me a beast, I certainly do. Why, why must that face haunt me so? My darling Angel of Music…how could I, how _dare_ I?" She buried her face in her shaking hands.

Clarice placed her hands on Christine's shoulders and waited for the young woman to look at her. "Christine Daae, listen to me, do you have a home, somewhere you can be alone?"

The young woman looked at her, her jaw shaking slightly. She managed a small nod.

"Good. I want you to go, and I want you to _stay there_, do you understand?"

"But-but rehearsal…I have rehearsal at one today."

Clarice smiled as she heard this. Good, if she could still remember her job, the girl couldn't be traumatized too badly. "Don't worry about that. I will speak to the managers. Can I trust you to do as I say? Not to leave your house, I mean?"

"Yes, but…" Christine hiccupped slightly and made a half-hearted gesture toward the mirror in her room.

"I know, I know, girl. But not now."

Christine did not argue again. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her body and shivered from something other than fear. Clarice stood up and threw open the wardrobe in the room, rummaging around until she pulled out a warm traveling cloak. A long black cloak. _Shit_. She tied it around the young woman's shoulders anyway, braced for any immediate reaction. When Christine merely hugged the dark material more snugly around herself, Clarice relaxed.

Madam Giry still had not moved from her position in the doorway and was shocked to realize that Clarice had just spoken to her. "I'm sorry, madam, what did you say?"

"I asked if you knew where Mlle. Daae lives."

"Yes, I do. But—."

Clarice pressed several francs into the old woman's hand and shot her a look that silenced any more argument. "See that she gets there safely and that she gets some _sleep_." She watched silently as Mme. Giry helped Christine to her feet and led them both out the door.

Alone once more, Clarice sat down heavily upon the couch that Christine had vacated. She felt her breathing quicken as a delayed rush of emotions surged through her body. Glancing around, she saw the half-empty bottle of champagne that Raoul had left last night still resting atop the dresser. She strode over and dropped the bottle into the wastebasket. The flat champagne barely fizzed as it struck bottom with a loud _clunk_. Her eyes lingered upon the black-and-white photograph. Turning again, she strode toward the massive mirror on the other side of the room and caressed its frame lightly, feeling curiosity well up within her like a song.

---------------

Erik stumbled down to his lair with uncharacteristic clumsiness after depositing Christine in her dressing room. His hands shook as he propelled himself across the lake. The oar caught upon an unseen snag in the depths of the dark water and the boat rocked violently as it tipped him into the subterranean lake. The water was even colder than he imagined it, and by the time he pulled himself shivering and trembling back into the boat, his bones felt as if they burned with icy fire.

His frosty bath in the lake had done nothing to penetrate the haze surrounding his mind. Even when he had been carrying Christine in his arms as he made his way up endless flights of stairs, his mind had been far away, battling vicious inner demons. He had hardly noticed the way her body laid limp and pliant in his arms or the warmth of her still form. In any other circumstances, he would have been struck dumb and fearful by the possibility of being this close to her. How, how could he have been so foolish? What on earth had possessed him to succumb to the daft scheme of bringing her down to his home? Especially after she had seen him that one time when he had crept into her dressing room as she slept…

_Did you perhaps desire for her to get used to the surroundings?_ – sneered a familiar voice in his head – _Thought she might like to stay didn't you? You twisted beast, have you learned nothing all these years?_

"Shut up," he muttered at himself and wondered, not for the first time, whether he was really going mad. After all, he was talking to himself now.

The fury he felt at her for removing his mask had long since degenerated into black despair. He could never speak to her again, he knew it. She no longer thought of him as her Angel but as a…a…he didn't want to imagine what. That look on her face! He resisted the impulse to laugh out of sheer delirium as he eased the boat against the dock outside his house.

_Well…I suppose it isn't a complete loss. You did manage to organize that gala after all_. That thought lent enough steadiness to his hands to tie up the boat properly.

He knew even before laying a hand to undo the bolt on the wrought-iron gate leading to his house that he was not alone. Annoyance swelled up in his mind like a warm bubble of air, shoving aside his despair for the time being. He had already had his privacy invaded in the most terrible way this morning and was in no mood to tolerate another incursion. He observed only one set of footprints leading up to his front door and therefore was not alarmed. His hand crept toward a familiar pocket in his cloak. This intruder would pay dearly.

Erik made his way through the rooms of his house like a wisp of smoke, keeping to the shadows. A casual observer would have credited his presence to a figment of their imagination, so stealthy was his progress. The intruder was standing by the piano, reaching a hand towards one of the black candlesticks, his eyes filled with morbid fascination. Erik recognized the man at once, one of only two people at the Opera now who had ever seen his face.

"Monsieur Buquet, what an unexpected delight to find you here."

The candlestick, mercifully unlit, broke upon contact with the floor and its holder clattered noisily beside it as Buquet twisted around in surprise. The unbridled terror was pathetically obvious in his face, and Erik savored it for a moment, amused despite himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ayesha launch herself from the top of the piano to circle Buquet's feet, hissing and spitting.

Buquet was opening and closing his mouth soundlessly like a goldfish as Erik glided across the floor toward him. _And I'm even wearing the mask. The man hadn't been nearly as terrified the time he saw me without it_, Erik thought. But then again, there was something different about encountering the Ghost in his own lair. For a moment, Erik considered how he must appear to the man right now. A looming, sinister figure with water running down his clothes like blood.

Ah yes…the Phantom, merciless as well, and devoid of all emotion and morality, that was him.

Erik felt the sharklike grin forming on his twisted lips of its own accord as he continued to advance on the man. Buquet stepped back instinctively, stumbling on the fallen candlestick and clutching the arm of a sofa to steady himself.

Christine had sat in that sofa the previous night, leaning on the same arm in open-mouthed delight as he had played his compositions for her on the organ.

Erik sneered at the trembling Buquet, feeling the insane, uncontrollable desire for murder rising inside him like a raging wildfire. This time he didn't even bother trying to suppress it.

"My dear stagehand, however did you come to be here? Surely you know that it is terribly rude to invade another's home."

"The th-th-third cellar…I leaned against something and followed the pa-pathway."

"Hmm, I suppose I'll have to fix that then. Can't have my entrances being discovered so haphazardly."

"You-you really are insane." His face grew even whiter as he said this but he continued to speak, obviously realizing the hopelessness of the situation and determined to go with a shred of dignity. "This place," he waved his hand toward the black tapestries hanging upon the walls, knocking a few sheets of music from the piano to the floor as he did so. "You really are nothing more than the demented gh-ghost I make you out to be."

"I daresay you will be able to confirm the accuracy of that statement soon enough," Erik said coldly. "It seems as if the Opera will house another ghost in the immediate future."

He struck like lightning. The Punjab lasso settled itself neatly around Buquet's neck before the man had a chance to blink. With his extraordinarily disciplined reflexes, Erik drew the noose tight, just short of breaking the man's neck, and reeled him close like a thrashing carp.

Erik watched Buquet's eyes bulge as he clawed frantically at the thin rope around his neck. "Your hand at the level of your eye, monsieur. You should have learned to take your own advice," he hissed at the man. Buquet's face was turning a curious mixture of blue and purple and his mouth twisted itself into a grotesque shape. Erik continued watching the dying man with cold detachment. "If you continue carrying on this way, I do believe you will share a physical likeness to this Ghost in the end, monsieur." But it was too late for Buquet to hear. A rasping gurgle arose in his throat and with a shudder he fell still.

Erik removed the noose from the man's neck with ease and shoved the corpse from him roughly. Buquet landed heavily upon his back, his dead eyes staring at the ceiling in blank desperation. Erik stowed the lasso in its normal pocket in his cloak and stumbled back from the body in numb exhaustion.

Ayesha leaped from the floor to land on the keyboard of the piano. The third E above middle C rang shrilly through the heavy air, and Erik found his lips moving in a soundless melody in time with his thudding heart.

That note had been the highest he had allowed Christine to vocalize up to. He could tell that she could have managed more. Her face had been flushed with excitement and the brilliant red tinge of her cheeks had crept up to her sparkling eyes. She had turned those eyes upon him then and the sheer magnitude of her emotion had hit him like a hammerblow. He was quite breathless as they gazed at each other for the better part of a minute, his fingers frozen over the forgotten keyboard…

Erik sat down heavily upon the piano bench. The desire for murder was no longer devouring his insides and he could feel a terrible emptiness growing to take its place. It had been nearly thirty years since he had last killed a man. Yet his hands had accomplished the deed so efficiently, his hands…that had created such beautiful music for Christine had not forgotten their speed, their mindless joy over killing… Ayesha leaped into his lap, and he clutched the cat's body so tightly that she wriggled free a few seconds later, glaring at him as she disappeared into the shadows.

He continued to stare at Buquet's body, not really seeing it, his breath coming in short gasps. Then, turning back towards the piano, he covered his eyes with one hand as he began to weep.


	5. To Err is Human

In This Labyrinth 

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By Jstarz927

A/N: Apologies for the long delay, but the previous month has been insane. Moving about 1000+ miles away to a new house, setting up a new computer. Yech. But at least now I'm less than two hours away from New York…maybe I'll be able to see the musical after all.

Here is the new chapter, written during a spurt of inspiration when the muse was feeling particularly generous. Info about Florentine structures comes from personal experience. They really are beautiful, and I strongly recommend a visit.

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**Chapter 5**

**To Err is Human…**

Clarice turned the corner and looked into the managers' office, groaning slightly when she saw the person already inside.

M Firmin chose that moment to look up from the receipts on his desk and spied her in the doorway. "Ah, Mme Duchesse de Londres, do come in." He seemed to be in a much better and more sober mood than he was last night, and it was not too hard to see why. Even as Clarice stepped into the office, Firmin's attention moved back to the considerable stack of receipts upon his desk.

As the man seemed disinclined to reacknowledge her existence anytime soon, Clarice let her eyes wander over the unchanged squalor of the office to settle upon the half dozen newspapers scattered over Firmin's desk among the receipts.

"So you've seen the news then," he said, looking up long enough to pick up the nearest one, _L'Epoque_. "They all say the same: 'Mystery after Gala Night!'" he picked up another, "'Mystery of Soprano's Flight!'." He offered the papers to her and she took them, glancing with a raised eyebrow at the headlines that screamed from every edition. "It makes you wonder whether opera is truly what the audience comes to see. Gluck? Handel? Or a scandal?" He chuckled in delight over his own cleverness.

Clarice stared at him as if he had sprouted another head.

"This is damnable!"

They both turned to see Andre storming through the entrance in the most foul of tempers. He stopped short upon seeing Clarice. "Oh, my apologies, madam, I didn't know you were here. You must excuse my behavior, but it is distressing, most distressing…"

"I see no need to worry so much over Mlle Daae's absence," Clarice said with a frown. "After all, she's only been gone one night." She saw Andre's facial expression shift into the look she knew so well. _Oh God please don't say it. I swear if you say it—_

"I'm sorry, madam, but I afraid you don't understand exactly how this business works."

Suddenly the pistol strapped to her thigh seemed twice as heavy.

Andre continued, seemingly unaware of the new coldness in her eyes. "It's a terrible thing. Already the people are beginning to question us as to why we've been keeping such a talent a secret.  And now, poof! Disappeared without a trace, leaving us with no cast to speak of."

"Actually—," Clarice stifled the rest of her sentence before it left her lips. It would be worth it to see how the managers handled this particular disaster.

If either of the managers heard her, they gave no indication that they had. Firmin was trying to placate his partner, gesturing grandiosely at the immense pile of receipts on his desk. "Andre, Andre, can't you see that this is doing us more good than harm? Look at these receipts, look at the queue outside the box office!"

"Because Mlle Daae sang well…"

"…and because she disappeared just as well afterwards. The audience loves this sort of thing."

"We'll see how much they love us after the production of 'Il Muto' is cancelled because we have no cast!"

"Andre, calm yourself. Read your mail." As he spoke, Firmin picked two sheets of paper from the cluttered desk and handed one to his partner.

Andre snatched the note to him with one hand and read it aloud, almost absently. "'Dear Andre, what a charming gala…'" With each sentence his scowl became more and more pronounced until he was fairly glowering. "… 'the dancing was a lamentable mess!'" He scoffed, "How dare he!"

Clarice's head had snapped up at the last part of the note. "The dancing…what?"

Andre looked at her, seeming surprised that she was still in the room. "Yes, pure insolence don't you think?"

Clarice hardly heard what he was saying, the shock of hearing her husband's remark repeated word for word on the mysterious note still fresh in her mind. Coincidence? She didn't think so, but who could've heard…? Her mind rushed back to the empty box 5. She returned to the room in which she was standing in time to hear Firmin reading his letter.

"'My salary has not been paid'…oh for God's sake, not this again! And these are both signed O.G., exactly as I feared."

"Monsieur, who is demanding a salary?" Clarice asked curiously.

Firmin looked at her as if debating whether or not he should answer her. Apparently he decided it would be worth his trouble. "This O.G., also known as the much-beloved Opera Ghost, is under some delusion that we have 20000 francs a month to spare for his 'services' to the theater. As if we would! He is clearly quite insane."

Inquisitive, Clarice asked, "What services?"

An almighty shout disrupted whatever answer Firmin might have given.

"Where is she?!" The door shuddered before it was wrenched open by a red-faced and intensely irritated Vicomte de Chagny. His cuffs were unbuttoned and his collar was twisted. He was holding a note in a clenched right hand, and his eyes moved over the occupants of the room before settling on Clarice.

Perhaps it was because her face was the most prevalent among his memories of the night before. Perhaps his romantic spirit insisted on playing the role of the wounded hero. Or perhaps he was simply desperate. Clarice suspected the latter, but such knowledge did not increase her sympathy for the boy one bit as he rounded upon her, thrusting the note in her face. "Christine Daae! What have you done with her, Cassandra?"

Clarice was momentarily dumbstruck by the temper tantrum taking place before her. "Raoul, what—?"

"I trusted you! You even helped me look for her, and now you send me this note? What the hell is the meaning of this little joke?"

She took the note currently slashing the air in front of her face into her hands and read quickly. Her eyes widened before she raised them, and the look she gave Raoul was enough to deflate his temper somewhat. "You truly think I would do something so spiteful?"

"I—I—," he looked around at the managers for some support and found nothing but bewildered curiosity. Sputtering, he said, "But you must have something to do with this, you're the only one who was there when she disappeared. 'Angel of Music'? Who else but you?"

Clarice felt her anger dissipating as amusement over the boy's shoddy detective work began to take its place. The Agency would have never let him hear the end of it. "Raoul," she said calmly, her voice edged with steel, "I know that you care for Christine, but to think that you are the only one who does…" _And to constantly play her hero_, she thought. "You will cause her more grief than good."

Raoul looked a little humbled by her words but his face had not lost its mulish look. "You know where she is, don't you?" he muttered.

"Correct. Congratulations, your detective work is improving by the minute," Clarice said bitterly. "Now if you will excuse me, I will go make my confession to the police force you have no doubt brought here." She brushed past all three astonished faces and walked out the door.

She heard Raoul sprinting after her. "Cassandra, where—?" His query was cut short by the arrival of Carlotta. She stormed past Clarice with hardly a glance in her direction and planted herself squarely in front of Raoul, blocking his path and shaking a note in his face.

"I have your letter, monsieur!" She slammed the door behind her and Clarice heard no more. Shaking her head in exasperation and exhaustion, she began walking away from the office.

The walk, meant to ease her anger, only aggravated her, and she was fuming by the time she reached the Grand Foyer. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see thousands of her reflections stalking angrily from mirror to mirror.

_How dare he!_ she thought. _How dare he insinuate such things about her when all she had ever done was help him?_ With loathing, she recalled the look of self-righteous anger upon Raoul's face._ He loves it, loves playing the hero to his childhood friend. Obviously he has no idea what being a hero entails, he can't be more than twenty years old after all…_

Clarice stopped short in her furious gait. Her reflections in the mirrors froze in their dance. She looked into one of them and her features seemed to shift, grow younger and more naïve. She raised a trembling hand to her mouth. _Oh God, now I've done it. Opened Pandora's box of memories, I have…I can't hate him now, damn him! I was probably so much worse when I was his age, but…surely, I never judged anyone before getting to know them._

**_Oh, Special Agent Starling, you think you can dissect me with this blunt, little tool?_**

She shook her head furiously. No, that time was long past. Her reverie broke when she heard hurrying footsteps coming towards her from the end of the foyer.

"Madam! Wait, Cassandra!"

She turned away and took several determined steps forward. She hadn't gotten more than several feet before he caught up with her and impulsively reached out to grab her elbow. She whirled around upon him, and he paled, hastily releasing her and murmuring an apology.

"Yes, Raoul? Are you willing to be reasonable now, or should I go home and let you tear apart the theater again looking for her? Alone, too, I might add." She was being spiteful, but she couldn't resist. The look of childish innocence and determination upon his face was uncomfortably familiar.

He took a step back from her, leaving a proper three feet between them "I suppose I deserve that," he muttered, fumbling with a piece of paper in his fingers. "I have behaved badly, madam, and I beg your forgiveness."

"And what brought about this sudden revelation?"

"The ballet mistress Giry informed us that she had taken Christine home. And…and that you had been the one that told her to do so. I-I thank you, and I apologize for accusing you. That was inexcusable. I was just…very worried for her safety," he muttered, hanging his head in shame.

"Do you realize, Raoul, that if you had simply given me a chance to speak, that I could have told you where she was and therefore saved you much anxiety?" He shifted uncomfortably. She sighed. "You must remember that I am your friend, as well as Christine's. I would not have helped you search for her so diligently last night if I was not."

Raoul was silent.

Clarice looked down at the note she still held in her hand. The words were written in red ink. The script was halting and clumsy, like a child's. "What is this 'Angel of Music' business anyway?"

She saw his expression shift. She saw his discomfort seep into his skin and a dash of nostalgia thrown over it. The overall effect made him appear as if he were reliving a memory that caused him equal parts pleasure and pain. "When we were very young, Christine's father would tell us these magical stories of Little Lotte and her encounters with goblins and fairies. She liked them well, but her favorite visitor was the Angel of Music who would sing songs in her head while she slept. The Angel comes only to those whom he chooses, and when he does, they perform music such that makes people weep with wonder." He said all this rather reverently, as if he had heard it many many times before. His face went rigid. "Christine told me last night that her father in heaven had sent her the Angel. She has no doubt of it. I dread to think what force has overtaken her mind."

"Christine was close to her father?"

"Extremely so." He cleared his throat nervously, "Are we okay, Cassandra?"

She smiled at him, a small sad smile. "Yes, Raoul." They began walking through the Grand Foyer. He did not think to offer her his arm. Clarice's mind was spinning. _Christine still lived with her father's ghost; she was haunted by it, tormented by her memories._ Dimly, Clarice remembered the black-and-white image of a girl holding a violin and clutching her father's hand. _And she believes he has sent her the Angel of Music. A strange angel at that…"Oh madam, that face! Why must it haunt me so…?" she had said._

The memory of the sinister, skulking shadow was all too fresh in her mind. _Pale, ghostly skin and burning amber eyes_. Clarice wondered what secrets lay behind that half-mask. She had not missed the way his hand had trembled as it reached for Christine. Nor could she misunderstand the barely-veiled threat to Raoul in the letter she presently held in her hand. _Do not fear for Miss Daae. The Angel of Music has her under his wing. Make no attempt to see her again._

Although she had chosen to remain blissfully unaware of her feelings for Hannibal barely one year ago, her mind and intuition had advanced quite a bit since then. She was longer as ignorant about the things right in front of her face.

Shaking her head, she wondered what sort of bizarre love triangle she had wandered into so unwittingly. She felt it inside of her then: an unavoidable chain reaction of events that had started the moment she had laid eyes upon the Phantom of the Opera. There was nothing she could do now except face what she had begun.

As they approached the double doors that led to the theater, she stopped and turned to Raoul. "So then, what was it that Carlotta was screeching about?"

------------------

_Paris 1863_

_The man was trespassing._

_However, it would have been difficult for anyone except Erik to pinpoint that fact. The stranger was sitting leaning against a large tree and facing the barely constructed foundation. With his relaxed posture and scrutinizing gaze, he seemed for all intents and purposes like a king overlooking his domain. A sketchpad was balanced on his knees and his right hand, holding a pencil, was moving in large sweeping gestures upon the paper. Every so often he would lift his eyes from his work but then only to glance back at the scaffoldings and iron skeleton of the structure._

_There was nothing immediately bizarre about the man's presence except for the fact that it was three o'clock in the morning and his face was unfamiliar. Erik knew every single worker on the site, and he knew for certain that this man was not one of them. With his eyes that saw in the dark as easily as any cat's, he made his way silently to the man's side. He paused a moment to glance at the sketchpad and saw quickly that the structure the man was envisioning looked nothing at all like the proposed plan for the Opera House. It looked much better._

_"What are you doing here at this hour, monsieur?"_

_If the man was startled by the voice that suddenly descended out of the darkness, he did not show it. The hand paused over the sketchpad, hovering in midair before he laid the pencil aside. Turning to look exactly where Erik stood, he said calmly, "I could ask the same of you."_

The man could see him in this darkness? And that voice! So familiar...it took awhile for Erik to recognize it as his own.

_Erik brushed aside his sudden uneasiness. "You are not a worker at this site, therefore you have no right to be here."_

_"This tree is not part of the construction zone, monsieur. I am perfectly permitted to sit here if I wish."_

_No had dared to speak to him like that for years. Unconsciously, Erik felt his hands inching toward the familiar pocket in his cloak. Before he could reach it, the moon came out from behind a cloud. In the silver light, Erik could see the man's face plainly. He could see the formidable intelligence in his eyes and the high cheekbones that always seemed to grace the faces of royalty._

_The man couldn't have been more than a decade older than himself, but he had the feeling that if the man had been a hundred years old, there would be the same coldness in his gaze. Erik was reminded of a basilisk. He could not determine the color of the man's eyes, for they shone black in the moonlight._

_A few seconds passed before Erik realized that the stranger saw him as clearly as he was being observed. He froze as the man looked upon his masked face, a questioning, searching look in his eyes. "So you are Erik."_

_"How do you know who I am?"_

_"I traveled all the way from Italy to see the construction of this building. I made it my business to know those behind the design."_

_Erik snorted, annoyed again but not for his original reason. "That's Garnier you're talking about."_

_"Garnier is intelligent, but he's the sort of man who would have gone crazy after one year of dealing with the politicians if he didn't have some sort of help," said the man with a shrug._

_Erik's lips curved slightly in what could have been a smile, but his brusque tone of voice did not change. "You still haven't answered my question."_

_"Your reputation precedes you, monsieur. Your workers talk of little else."_

_"And you believe the no doubt _flattering _opinions of the laborers."_

_"I believe what I see," said the man casually._

_"You've been spying on me then," said Erik hotly. He had just returned from the section of building he had been working on. For the past few hours, he had been diligently modifying the preliminary structure of the facade, fixing the mistakes the laborers had made during the day. Never did he imagine that someone else would have been around at this hour._

_"Harsh. I came here tonight merely to sketch in peace. I would say that I was more 'casually observing' your work. I've never before seen someone else who could work as well at nighttime as I."_

_For the first time in years, Erik was at a complete loss as to what to say. Fear and hatred, the two most common reactions to him, apparently did not interest this man in the slightest. He had made no mention of the mask and possessed none of the prying inquisitiveness of the workers he had to deal with each day._

_"What part of Italy do you come from?" said Erik cautiously, hoping that his uncertainty did not show in his voice._

_"Florence. I became aware of this project when Garnier placed a large order for stone from the city. Have you ever been there?"_

_"No," said Erik as he let out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding. The man wouldn't have heard of his time in Rome then. "I have seen photographs."_

_"I do believe this would interest you then." The man flipped a few pages forward in his sketchbook to reveal a finished drawing. "This is the Duomo seen from the Belvedere. Santa Maria del Fiore and Giotto's belltower," he said, pointing to each structure in turn. He heard Erik's quick intake of breath as he beheld the beauty of the structure. "You have heard of the place?"_

_"Of course. Brunelleschi's dome is one of the marvels of ancient architechture." Erik found himself taking a step towards the man, drawn by the intricate beauty of his sketch. He had seen drawings of the cathedral before and read countless books about it, but never before had it looked this real. "It was one of the marvels of the Renaissance. A double dome more than 140 feet in diameter built without scaffolding or supporting framework of any kind."_

_"Yes," said the stranger. "However, I've always found the belltower to be an even more fascinating structure than the cathedral. Look at the tricolored marble, the perfect positioning of the light windows, and that beautiful terrace. So much more interesting than the cusps that normally surmount Gothic belltowers." He paused, lost in thought, and his finger came forward to touch the sketch lightly. "It is ironic then that Giotto di Bondone was considered by many Florentines to be the ugliest man in the city."_

_"Indeed?" queried Erik softly. Something flickered across his eyes before the expression was lost in the shadows of the mask._

_"Yes. 'Short and homely' I belive is what they said out of courtesy. Although you will find few who remember him that way. You can see that his monument has far outlived his earthly reputation."_

_"You know my name, but I have no knowledge of yours."_

_"I am...Dr. Fell. Dr. Arthur Fell."_

_"A medical doctor?"_

_"Officially. But you will find that I am a man of…many talents."_

_Erik was silent for a moment. Then, "Will you be here tomorrow night?"_

_Dr. Fell returned to the sketch of his version of the Opera House. "Does this mean I am welcome on your worksite then?"_

_He shrugged. "Apparently."_

_Dr. Fell smiled and the moon glittered in his darkened eyes. "My apologies for my initial trespass." The moon went behind a cloud and when it came back out, he was gone._

---------------------

Erik opened his eyes to find himself drenched with sweat. How long he had slept he did not know, but the pain in his stomach told him it had been a day at least. As his vision cleared, he discovered himself lying upon the couch in the music room in an undignified heap.

He focused his eyes upon the ceiling for as long as possible, knowing what he would find if he turned his head. For a moment, he entertained the notion that it had all been an elaborate nightmare. Simply another nightmare to poison his mind.

It was hot and uncomfortable underneath the mask and he took it off, wiping the sweat from the ravaged side of his face. He gazed at the ceiling again, his eyes following the contours of the natural rock in the flickering candlelight.

He groaned. This would not do at all. He abhorred weakness in other people and would not become a hypocrite by refusing to face what he had done. Rolling off the couch, he crossed the room to kneel by Buquet's side. Touching the rigid hand confirmed that the body had already stiffened in death.

He had to see that the man was buried. Erik was surprised to notice that his mind allowed him no choice in the matter. Buquet had been a decent soul, despite his liking for malicious gossip, and had provided the ballet girls with many a good laugh.

Erik looked into the dead man's tormented face and tried to remember his reason for killing him. None came. _He knew the way into your home, you idiot_. That was true, but when he had killed the man, that thought had not even crossed his mind. It was only after the fact, after he had returned from his blind rage.

He covered his eyes with his bony fingers. Of course Christine had drawn back in horror, how could she not? Even if his face had been normal, the ugliness in his soul surely would have frightened her away. His thoughts returned to the dream that had been no dream but a memory. The man's true name hadn't been Dr. Fell in the end, but that didn't keep Erik from remembering him that way. There had been plenty sinister about him after all.

Yet why this particular memory? The suspicion followed by the growing intrigue followed by that talk about monuments. Erik laughed softly. Surely Hannibal had known everything about him already during that first meeting. Still, he had to credit him for that marvelous segue that had given him the opportunity to wax metaphorical.

Well, the monument was built now…except that it was no longer his. After the retirement of the previous manager, the Opera Ghost's demands were being rejected as practical jokes. Before he had fallen into his exhausted sleep, he had heard, through his system of cleverly placed gas pipes, Carlotta's indignant shrieks and the self-righteous voices of the managers soundly rejecting his casting for the new production of "Il Muto".

But the Opera House wasn't the only monument he had attempted to construct, was it? After all, hadn't he tried to bend the will of an innocent girl to his? When she had seen her dream had been as twisted and mangled as his wretched face, hadn't he almost destroyed her for his own petty desires? But their music…He could not bear to see her forsake her talent because of his fault. He would not let this young woman who sang like one of God's own angels fall, not if he could do something about it.

Therefore, Erik found the resolution he had made the previous night fading into nothing. He would go see her, and then if she wanted nothing to do with him, well…he would find a way to accept it.

Erik passed a hand over the Buquet's forehead, resisting the impulse to close the dead man's eyes. Lifting the body easily in his arms, he made his way to the exit of his home.

--------------------

Christine sat in her dressing room after rehearsal, staring with half-delirious eyes at the mirror in front of her. Her hands were clenched into tight fists, her nails digging painfully into her palms, but she did not move from her position on the couch. Her jaw ached with the effort of containing the scream that had been festering for more than a day.

She had wanted to scream then. That morning after a broken man had quickly deposited her upon the couch in her dressing room and just as quickly disappeared. She had wanted to hurl things across the room and weep out of disappointment and fright.

Yet when Mme Giry had helped her through the door to her flat and had her lie down in her bed, tucking the covers carefully around her before departing, she found that she couldn't. Amidst the calm atmosphere of her home, surrounded by the memorabilia of the life that was once hers, it was hard not to imagine that the whole thing had been a dream. Burying her face into blankets she had used as a child, seeing the old furniture, the photographs on the dresser. The darkness of the fifth cellar held no power in this place that was unmistakably home.

Which had undoubtedly been Cassandra's intention all along.

Christine had almost smiled. _Since when had she become Cassandra?_ Truthfully, Christine had never thought of the woman as the "Duchess of London". She still scoffed lightly at the title. The woman was elegant, rich, and well-mannered in all the ways befitting a noblewoman and yet she was different from them. She had no desire to flaunt her status; her dress was cultured yet tasteful. Her eyes bore no arrogance but instead shone with a quiet resourcefulness and confidence as if she had risen to her current position after sweating and struggling for it all her life.

When Cassandra had taken her into her arms, Christine had felt…safe. She couldn't quite pinpoint the reason for her instinctive trust in this woman except that as a child, she had always been inclined to trust people easily. And yet, when she wanted to do nothing but scream and weep, Cassandra had calmed her without even trying and Christine had obeyed her commands blindly.

She had seen her once since yesterday morning, at rehearsal this afternoon. Cassandra had been sitting in the back row of the theater, watching the rehearsal with professional detachment. Except for once, when Christine saw her shoot Carlotta a look of undisguised hatred. The Spanish diva had taken the main role once more, and Christine had not seen the managers glance in her direction even once all during rehearsal. Her disappointment at their sudden disinterest in her only added to her sorrow.

And now, in her dressing room once more and with that blasted mirror in front of her, mocking her with its silence, the memories rushed back with the force of a hurricane.

She shivered as she remembered the chill of the fifth cellar and then calmed when she recalled the strong, gentle hands that had held her in a tender embrace. If she closed her eyes, she could let the music wash over her senses like a pleasant breeze. Such music she had never heard before during all her time with her Angel.

Her Angel…a man…Christine felt her stomach lurch as she remembered the look of horror in his face that she surely mirrored with her own. _Who was he and how dare he pretend to be an Angel?_ Yet when he had reached his arms toward her, pleading for his mask, the voice had not changed except that it was tinged with infinite sorrow.

_Who was this man and how had he come to live beneath the Opera? More importantly, how had he come to know her?_ Those were the questions her mind asked, but her body had frozen, rendered immobile by the horror of his face.

In her dressing room, Christine felt tears coming to her eyes as she remembered the look of gut-wrenching agony upon the man's face. She lifted her eyes up to the mirror once more. "Angel…please, please let me hear your voice once more. I want to hear you, I want to see you once again. Please…" she begged softly.

Nothing but the blank stare of an empty mirror.

Tears rushed anew to run down her cheeks. "Angel, my angel…"

_"Please…don't call me that_."

Christine raised her head at once, her face shining with hope, grief, and confusion at the same time. "Oh my Ange-, I'm sorry. What shall I call you instead?"

The pause before he spoke was so long that Christine feared he had left again.

_"Nothing. Forget I said that then_."

"Oh please, at least tell me your name!"

_"Christine…it is better if you don't know."_

"But…"

_"I never meant for you to find out that I was nothing but a man, and now that you have, you can't be feeling too kind towards your Angel either. When you still thought I was your Angel, how did you think of me?"_

Christine bit her lip. "It was the happiest time of my life. All my dreams had come true at once, and I could hardly take it…" Her eyes came up again and stared intently at the seemingly-innocuous surface of the mirror. "And even now, I still wish my Angel would come back and teach me."

_"Even though I deceived you?"_

"I…I understand why it was necessary."

_"I don't think you do, Christine, I don't think you do at all."_

She lowered her eyes, unable to answer. The silence that followed was nearly as long as the first, and she felt the fear start to grow in her heart again.

_"Show me what you're working on now_."

Christine's breath caught in her throat, and tears shimmered in her eyes as her hands started to shake, almost unable to believe. Then she retrieved her libretto from where she had deposited it on the couch.


	6. To Murder is Sublime

A/N: Glad you all are enjoying this as much as I am. Hugs and chocolate to all my reviewers. I appreciate your words more than you'll ever know. Alright, in this chapter I do a little screwing with the timeline in order to pick up the pace a bit. It mixes both musical and book timeline so that Buquet's body makes an appearance, Carlotta croaks, and Erik drops the chandelier all on the same night. Got it? Great! This chapter also introduces my first serious departure from canon, and I hope you will like it. After all, I set up the torment of one of the characters we all love to hate. ;) A note:

Mystery Guest: This story is intended for fans of Phantom. For fans of Hannibal. For those fans of both and fans of neither. I will definitely be providing plenty of background info on the Hannibal/Clarice story in future chapters, but for now I'm trying my best to make you feel what the Phantom characters are feeling. They have no idea who these people are or what their history is and when they find out…well, it could be either good or bad for them. However, if you want some general info now, you can go here: www. geocities. com/ jstarz927/ synopsis.html

Chapter edited 2/10/04

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In this Labyrinth 

By Jstarz927

**Chapter 6**

**...To Murder is Sublime**

She should have seen it coming. All of it.

As it was, perhaps her eyes had been dazzled by the winking lights of the chandelier or by the lush opulence of their private box. Hannibal had chosen not to attend the first performance of _Il Muto_, and Raoul had insisted on being her escort after he had seen her stepping out of her carriage without her husband. She had listened to his idle, energetic chatter all the way up the Grand Staircase and through the foyer. She stopped when he did not part from her in front of his own box but instead continued to follow her around behind the left side of the theater.

"Raoul, isn't your box that way?"

"Oh, yes. I'm afraid that it has been sold. It was only temporary and tonight is a full house...but M Firmin was kind enough to lend me the use of another private box. By some stroke of fortune it had not yet been sold!"

"And which box would that be?" Clarice asked, though the crawling feeling in her stomach told her that she already knew.

"Number 5." Raoul released her arm as they stopped before the door to box 7. "Enjoy the performance," he continued, turning to enter the door to her left, "I will be only one column away."

She should have known then. She should have marched into that box and hauled his ass out of there. Maybe then everything wouldn't have gone to hell. Then again, she doubted that the invasion of his private box was the main reason for the Phantom's anger that night.

The lights on the seven-ton chandelier dimmed and the dark stage was illuminated to reveal the typical garish splendor of the opera and the first few notes were sung, the shimmering vibrato filling the great expanse of the theater.

Clarice watched the first half hour of the opera with mixed interest, and all the while, every single one of her police instincts was assaulting her mind. She saw Carlotta strut onto the stage for the second act with a young singer dressed in a man's clothes at her side. That must be...she half-stood from her chair for a better look.

It happened so fast. Carlotta filled her diva's lungs and opened her mouth only to send a magnificent croak into the air. The image of the singer's horrified, painted face was still twirling in Clarice's mind's eye when she heard the maniacal laugh fill the theater.

A flutter of a black cloak up near the frescoed ceiling, the sudden darkness in her box as the main chandelier swung on its counterweights away from her, a heavy object swung down from the rafters to dangle above the stage, bulging eyes staring out from a death-gray face, the mutterings of old men replaced by piercing screams quickly following suit. And when Clarice's mind resurfaced from its reeling shock, she peered over her balcony to see the sea of shattered glass and blood from broken bodies blanketing the floor like diamonds scattered amidst rose petals. In the back of her mind, she could hear, the sound of Raoul fumbling frantically to open his box door. It was a buzzing noise, like a fly examining a fresh kill. Then the slam of the door as he rushed down the hall, presumably to burst into the theater as a knight in shining armor to save his princess.

And then Clarice leaned against the balcony of box 5 and gazed across the swirl of bobbing heads, frantically pushing against each other in their desperation to escape. She was still standing there several hours later when utter silence reigned. The screaming had died down a little while after the frantic mobs had exited the auditorium.

And it was several hours since Carlotta had pulled off, in Clarice's opinion, the most enjoyable performance of her career. Several hours since Buquet's partially decomposed body had swung down from the rafters. Several hours since the massive chandelier had fallen from the ceiling and a terrified Christine had seized Raoul by the hand and dragged them both out of sight.

Several eternities that Clarice had stood there, the silence of the immense Opera House oppressively pressing in upon her ears like layers of wool, suffocating and hot.

Five people had been killed when the chandelier had fallen. Their blood was still spattered among the seats, staining the gilded frames rose-red before blending perfectly into the red velvet seats.

I never can escape it, can I? No matter where I go, no matter what I do, the innocents will always be the ones to suffer.

The lambs, silent for nearly a year now, were beginning to press upon her soul like the deathly silence was currently pressing upon her body. She had thought that she had silenced them for good the night she had chosen Hannibal.

He had been strangely aloof lately. In the few weeks since she had collapsed into their bed at two in the morning, he had retreated into some distant corner of his memory palace with no intention of returning anytime soon. He would eat dinner in utter silence and then disappear into his study for hours on end. She doubted that he slept at all.

She had attempted to talk to him about Christine once, voicing her concerns about the torment the girl was going through and whether he knew anything about her connection with the Phantom of the Opera and why did he keep so many secrets about said phantasm who seemed to have no intentions of being kept a secret himself and why the bloody hell was he still keeping secrets from her after all that she had done and said and been through over the years for him, for them. It was five minutes before Clarice realized that she was shouting.

And Hannibal had looked straight at her unblinkingly during her tirade and waited patiently until she was done. "Let Christine make her own choice, and let me make mine, my dear," he had said when she had stopped for want of breath. And then there had been the click of the study door behind him.

Now Clarice stood with her head in her hands gazing over another scene of death and destruction and felt her mind slipping through her fingers like water. She barely registered the sound of the box door opening and was unaware of the presence of another being until the sickly sweet smell of alcohol filled the enclosed space. Grimacing, she turned to face the intruder.

Something inside Firmin had broken when he had seen the chandelier crash into the audience. He had tried to soothe the pain for hours afterwards, going through bottle after bottle of scotch, despite the feeble warnings of his partner. In his inebriated state, his feet had somehow brought him here, box 5, the very symbol of his tormentor.

With his syrupy vision, Firmin felt a stab of fear when he discovered the other presence in the infamous box. The fear quickly turned into a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach when he figured out the person's identity. He could not place it, but it was far from unpleasant.

"Wha…are you doin here?" He took several steps in her general direction, leaning against the immense column for support. He clutched the bottle in his left hand closer to his body.

Clarice could not have thought of a person she would have liked to see less at that moment. She found her body stiffening, unwilling to do the man any physical damage while his appearance was already so pathetic. She settled for cold scorn.

"I wasn't aware that this box was off-limits. You were more than willing to lend it to the Vicomte de Chagny tonight."

"Ahhahh." He laughed a terrible, gargling laugh and slumped against the balcony less than a foot away from her. "A smart lady, aren't you? Sure your husband must be proud."

Clarice jerked roughly away from the balcony. "Good night, monsieur," she snapped.

Firmin's right hand shot out, grasped at the empty air where her sleeve had been, dropped back to his side. "No, wait. I's s-sorry for that. Dunno what came over me. I…" he squinted, "can't…see too well right now. Was-was the damage as bad as it sounded?"

Clarice crossed her arms. "Worse. Even in your state, you should remember. Get to the point, _monsieur_."

Firmin leaned heavily against the balcony as he covered his eyes with his hand and let a ragged, sobbing curse escape his lips. "D'you know what it's like to have your world destroyed, Du-Duchess? To have things so completely out of your control…?" He blinked and shook his head roughly. "It was funny though, wasn't it? Opera Ghost, Opera Ghost, what a splendid farce! And now, I am…lord of the drunkards…baron…of bacchanalian rites, king of, uh, the corkscrew." He laughed again as a few tears from his crossed eyes rolled down his cheeks.

Clarice stared, too horrified and fascinated to respond.

The manager worked his feet back underneath him and took several unsteady steps towards her. "You remind me of someone, Madame Fell." His eyes uncrossed as he scrutinized her face and lifted one finger, stopping short of touching her. "S'not dirt there in your cheek, is it?"

Clarice drew a short breath, and her heart seemed to twist inside her chest. Turning quickly, she strode out from the box, groping in the darkness of the hallway like a blind child.

Firmin remained where he stood, his sluggish brain slowly registering his confusion. He shrugged and lifted the bottle to his lips.

Outside box 5, a pair of eyes winked in the darkness and disappeared as a hiss of anger filled the hallway.

----------------------

The strings of Apollo, the god of music's, lyre upon the roof of the Opera House had left gashes in Erik's hands that had not faded even hours afterwards. After staring numbly at the damage, he grasped the strings once again, relishing the pain as his sore flesh scraped against the cold stone. He swung himself into a sitting position upon the shoulders of the neighboring statue, his back resting against Apollo.

Perched silently atop his domain like the shadow he was, his great black cloak fading into the night, Erik bowed his head against the bitterly cold wind. Faraway, there was a growl of thunder. And then all was silence.

The ardent, tender voices of Christine and Raoul had long since faded away. Staring at his scored hands once again, Erik could barely remember grasping the statue so fiercely that the skin of his hands had broken. All he had seen before the black despair had enveloped him were Christine's delightfully full lips again and again meeting those of that wretched boy.

He had been a fool.

Erik laughed softly into the night. "I ascended all this way from the darkness to seek your advice, God. Is this how you answer me?" He swayed precariously upon his perch. His next words were barely a whisper. "If so, thank you. I had my doubts before, but I know now, dear _merciful_ God." His only answer was a louder growl of thunder. "There's no happiness to spare this abomination, is there? Of course not. Your infinite pride will never let you admit that you've made a mistake."

Feeling a surge of fury, Erik leaped to his feet, balancing upon the head of the statue and once again grasping the strings of Apollo's lyre when his body began to sway. He tore his mask away with one hand and thrust his face towards the heavens. "Then simply look at me! Look at this freak, this atrocity, this monster. Look! That's all I ask of _you_!" The wind tore at his face, and the thunder rumbled even louder. Erik smiled inwardly at the melodrama of the scene. It would have made a fine opera.

He stood there for several minutes as the rain began to fall. Raindrops fell from the heavens, caressing his naked face: the only caress he would ever feel. He tilted his head towards the sky and opened his mouth, feeling the bitter droplets slide down his throat. The clouds opened completely then and the rain fell fast and hard. Erik felt the gentle caress of water turn into stinging blows, cold and harsh. He did not turn his face away as he continued to plead silently to his dark deity, clinging to his perch like a sailor upon a storm-tossed ocean. His tears mingled with the rainwater, and eventually, racking sobs forced him back into a sitting position.

Nobody should have died. That ridiculously gaudy chandelier should not have claimed any lives with its death. Dammit, he had shaken the thing on its counterweights for a good minute before letting it fall, maniacal laughter and all. Surely even the slowest being would have realized the danger of remaining in their seats in that time. Surely the sight of Carlotta croaking like a wretched toad would have tipped them off that something was wrong.

_What does it matter?_ whispered the nasty, familiar voice in his head. _What have you to lose from killing people? No, you have everything to gain. They know your power now, they've closed the theater because of you. You have nothing for which to mourn._

"If that were true, I wouldn't be sitting here now." He was talking to himself again. Erik hunched his shoulders against the wind-blown rain. Christine would surely not return to the Opera for a long time. She had her engagement to plan, after all.

A flash of color below him caused him to shift his gaze downwards. He blinked as he beheld the apparition standing at the foot of the statue of Apollo.

It was that Duchess woman. Erik hissed in anger at his carelessness. God only knew how much she had heard. Hot embarrassment overwhelmed him at the thought of her observing his weakness.

And then she lifted her head against the pounding rain and saw him. They stared at each other for a long time, Erik comforted by the fact that she could not possibly make out his features in the blackness of night. _What was she doing here?_

As an expert magician, Erik had grown skilled at predicting his audience's thoughts. He tried it now, peering into those eyes some dozen feet below him and probing their depths. There was a flutter in his chest as he sensed the coppery scent of blood staining her memories. Curious, he looked closer. And drew back in sick horror as the image appeared of an iron gate slamming shut in a dark cell. _What did this woman know of cages and darkness?_

Watching closely, Erik saw her body shudder. Whether it was the result of the chilling rain or of his scrutiny, he would never know. He whirled around, his cloak failing to billow dramatically in its sodden state, and disappeared into the night.

---------------------------

Certain aspects of human nature are most dangerous when repressed. In such circumstances, all that is required to release a torrent of forgotten skill and experience is the slightest trigger. For Hannibal Lecter, murderer of over 20 people, the trigger was the memories of his summers in Paris before his capture. A trigger that Clarice had unwittingly set off that night when she had returned from her fruitless search for Christine in the bowels of the Opera.

Dr. Lecter ventures into his memory palace now and gazes at the effects of that night. Doors are flung wide, a dank smell emanating from the darkness of the yawning mouths. Makeshift walls are ground to dust and objects shifted from their places. He can't say that he entirely disapproves of the changes.

He wanders the hallways, the feet of his mind moving soundlessly over the many miles of winding corridors, pausing every so often to dust off a picture frame or scrutinize a particular sculpture.

_Images return to him now, transparent and faint as ghosts of the past. Screams resounding, eyes bulging with fear, and everywhere the pungent, greasy scent of death._ Dr. Lecter closes his eyes and shudders as a sensation akin to pain rushes through him. He reaches forward and makes a few more adjustments, bending pathways, twisting stairways, smiling in contentment at the new structures revealed.

He does not know how much real time has passed since he first ventured into his shaken memory palace. It could have been hours or weeks; time holds no power within this precious residence.

The final thing he does is to close every single door leading to Clarice Starling. Since the beginning of their time together, he has created several carefully-selected shared entrances into his memory palace, and, through a process of hypnosis and detailed instruction, taught Clarice how to build her own home. However, he is unwilling to risk allowing her to know now what he plans to do.

He had never been fool enough to think that Clarice had come to him out of desire for a savior. He had seen the way she had thrown herself into a field dominated by men. She had entered fighting and would have fought until the end. He had toyed with her, tasted her pain, grief, and triumph. He had closed his eyes to ponder the games played with the feisty cub and opened them to find her looking right back at him, a full-grown lioness with the capacity to frighten him.

Now as he closes the final entrance and his feet carry his physical body down a familiar path, he tries not to predict her reaction. Undoubtedly, he will be both wrong and discouraged by the thought. Overconfidence had resulted in his capture the previous year, and he resolves himself to caution.

His eyes let him know that policemen stand by all entrances. He wonders what new disaster has befallen the ill-fated building as he passes by the guards unseen, soft and quick as a shadow. As he approaches his destination, he proceeds more and more cautiously, pausing once in a dark alcove for over ten minutes as two firemen block the hallway and whisper feverishly about the damage to the auditorium. He begins to smile as he listens. Erik has truly outdone himself this time.

Dr. Lecter makes it to his destination without further trouble. Fortune is with him; the subject is here. The doctor's blood boils as he observes the scene that takes place before him yet stands perfectly still as Clarice storms through the hallway barely a foot away. He is mildly curious when he hears the door to the roof slam shut behind her but does not halt his progress.

The wretched man has enough time to swallow one gulp of his filthy drink before a cloth is clamped over his nose and mouth and his eyes begin to roll from this new, more powerful drug.

A wild, discordant melody echoes through the halls of his memory palace as Dr. Lecter eases the limp body to the carpeted floor and closes the door, leaving them alone in the deathly silence.

--------------------------

Firmin woke up in a haze of ragged gold and red stars. It took him a minute for his eyes to focus, but once they had, he had no trouble identifying his surroundings. He was standing upright, strapped tightly to something with vast quantities of rope. He was in box 5 and he had a massive headache. He heard something move right behind his right ear before a familiar, cultured voice sliced through the thick silence.

"I took the liberty of sobering you up. I hope you don't mind, but I do wish for you to be lucid during what shall pass. Unfortunately, the infusion I used causes quite a bit of stomach pain, so let me know if you feel terribly uncomfortable."

There was something extremely wrong about this unfamiliar situation. Why couldn't he move? What did the voice mean by "what shall pass"?

Apparently, his recently sobered mind could not keep up with his thought processes. Firmin groaned as his head seemed to split between his eyes and a new, dull pain grew in his stomach. His tongue felt oddly limp in his mouth. "I…I, where am I? Andre, is this a new patron? Why aren't we meeting him in our office?"

A sigh behind his ear. "Monsieur, I don't think you heard me correctly."

Firmin blinked his sore eyes. "Who are you?" Silence. "You're, you're him aren't you? The Opera Ghost? Wha-what do you want with me? I closed the theater…what else…?

"I want to talk, monsieur. Talk about the way you run your business. About the way you treated my wife. And about your plans for the future." While it talked, the voice moved from behind his ear to his side and finally around into his field of vision.

Firmin's mouth went dry as he beheld the apparition before him. A dark hulking shadow with maroon eyes burning with a black fire. Placed against the backdrop of the red velvet theater, the figure looked as if it was bathed in blood. He felt a lurch in his stomach that he was sure had nothing to do with whatever drug the monster had put in him.

"_Bonsoir, M Firmin_." Then he grinned and said in unaccented English, "I'm delighted to finally make your acquaintance properly." There was a flash of silver, and his right hand rose, holding the unsheathed, serrated blade of a Harpy. "Shall we begin?"


	7. Rage

A/N: Sorry sorry for the long wait. Put simply, midterms are hell. But they're over now. *grins widely and throws a masquerade ball* Also, this chapter was originally about 16 pages but I chopped the last bit off to be part of the next chapter. So the next chapter _should_ take less time to write. This chapter's still plenty long though, so hopefully that will make up for the delay.

A million kudos go to my spiritual twin and beta-diva extraordinaire, Aine Deande. I would have sat on this chapter for so much longer if it weren't for you. Thank you thank you and thank you.

In this part, lines of poetry have been purloined from Poe's "The Raven".

Chapter 7 

**Rage**

_I must be in hell_.

It was the only rational explanation that dawned upon the unfortunate man's consciousness as he gazed into those fiery red eyes.

He swore vehemently. "Demon!"

The apparition laughed and blinked his eyes. When he next looked upon his victim, the inferno was gone from the maroon irises and replaced with something that resembled delight.

"Ah, Mr. Firmin, it is time you learned that the true demons of society are not those that hide away in shadows," he said, his hand drawing lazy patterns in the air with the blade of the Harpy. "They are the ones that mask themselves more effectively with lies and deceit than our phantom friend ever could. Those you see everyday. Men like you. And me."

He tilted his head and modified his smile slightly. All of a sudden, he looked like a different person: pleasant and amiable, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he grinned. "Do you see? That's all it takes. A wink here. A smile there. A few thousand francs to your name. People are so easily deceived when they only see what they want to see. And you, my friend, have seen too much." The Harpy blade glinted ominously in the half-light of box 5.

Firmin had a small library at home that he kept under careful lock and key. Although he enjoyed all genres of works, he had a special fondness for mystery and drama. The Opera Ghost fiasco had caused him great deals of stress, but he couldn't help feeling the slightest bit exhilarated at being part of something so utterly mysterious.

Now it seemed that he had become part of something more mysterious than all the tales he had ever read. If he were in a different position, he was sure he would have found it an enjoyable read.

As fear and curiosity battled for dominance within his sluggish mind, he could not suppress the feeling that he knew this man and that he should be sitting with him around a coffee table rather than standing with him in hell.

The unfamiliar urge to scream swelled inside his body, and he noticed that he could not have done so even if he wanted. A gag covered his mouth, tied loosely enough to allow quiet speech but nothing more. The demon had thought of everything.

His voice cracked like brittle leaves. He swallowed and tried again. "Wha-what have I seen?"

The figure spread his arms open wide. "Me, monsieur. Has my prowess amused you? How long did it take before your greed threw caution to the winds? You could have lived quite comfortably upon our blood. I believe the price is now close to half a million American dollars for the both of us. Or was your motive more…carnal?" His eyes darkened dangerously.

Firmin half expected the apparition to laugh maniacally then, as would befit a creature of his genre. The demon did nothing of the sort. Instead, he reached down and smoothed his rumpled dress shirt, fastening his cuffs more securely around his wrists. This achingly normal gesture struck his impaired consciousness like a hammerblow.

He felt the anxiety building inside him along with a growing sense of disbelief as several windows aligned within his mind and, finally, he recognized his captor. "Monsieur Fell? You? My…my God man, what's happened to you?" A tearing sensation ripped through his abdomen, and he gasped, attempting to double over in pain, straining against the ropes.

He felt coolness upon his skin as Dr. Lecter placed a hand against his forehead. Somewhere through the fog of agony, he felt the sting of a needle and then the voice speaking: "The dosage is correct, monsieur. Take a few deep breaths to clear your head."

Firmin took a few rapid breaths, and a new wave of pain wracked his body as the oxygen cleared his head and he could see, could see everything.

"Let me go," he whimpered, tears mingling with sweat underneath his eyelashes, "I want to go home. I don't like this game."

"Ah, monsieur—"

Firmin's muffled shriek filled the box. "I don't know what you're talking about! I never meant to be rude to your wife, I was drunk at the time, I apologize. I apologize! Just let me go, _please_, oh—oh God, oh God..." He was sobbing now from the pain and the blind fear, tears soaking the gag and choking him.

Things like this weren't supposed to happen to him. They belonged in the newspaper headlines: shocking stories filled with impersonal names, to be gawked at by the common man. It couldn't happen to him, never to him…he looked up and fixed his tear-filled eyes upon those of his captor; they were twin points of red light, markers alongside the road to hell. His insides seized up with the cold fear and he knew no more.

Dr. Lecter stepped back from the unconscious man. Something was stirring, stirring inside the dark hallways of his mind. A simple fact traversed the twisted labyrinth before seizing his subconscious and shaking it like a rat-killing dog.

Firmin had _no idea_ who he was up against. He had suspected nothing and was about as dangerous to them as a choirboy.

And Dr. Lecter had known all along that the man was no danger to them.

And his actions would have remained the same regardless. There was no doubt in his mind.

Hannibal Lecter's mind is a palace of a thousand rooms, bounded by the dreaming and descending, level by level, deeper and deeper into the unplumbed depths of awareness. He has passed years in this residence, while his body laid in caged darkness, the screams of fellow prisoners his only music. Eight years ago, he knew every single inch of the corridors of his mind in as exquisite detail as he knew the walls of his 10 by 15 foot cell. But after gaining his freedom, he had strayed from his path, and, as happens so frequently in dreams, the paths he once knew so well were no longer there.

The architecture is changed and even now, he sees that the adjustments he had made were not as he had remembered. The palace has made modifications of its own, and Dr. Lecter sees them only now, as if awakening from a deep sleep.

He sees now that he had desired no excuse for his actions. The free-range rude and incarnate saints were the same in his eye, specimens of the unique race known as human.

He had not chosen Firmin because he was dangerous or because he was _rude_. He had chosen Firmin because it had amused him to do so.

Realizing only now what he had done, Dr. Lecter begins to laugh, the sound reverberating through the empty theater as well as the far vaster corridors of his memory palace. He had never denied to himself that he was brilliant by human standards. But never had he imagined that his own mind could escape his own comprehension. Never had he imagined that his mind could string him along a sequence of events like a puppet, raising the curtain and revealing the stage mechanisms only after it was too late to turn back.

_Too late, too late now, and no way to go but forward…_

Hannibal Lecter could not deny his pleasure at the way events had evolved.

He reached forward and grasped Firmin's throat, his fingers pressing against special places on his neck. The man came back to himself with a muffled shout.

"What is the spot upon my wife's cheek, if it is not dirt?" Dr. Lecter asked, the moment Firmin shrank back from him once again in horror.

"A scar? A mole? I don't know!"

"No, you really don't, do you? It is gunpowder, monsieur. The nobles of this country call it 'courage'. But you didn't know that either. That is what sticks people like you to things. The desire to know. It's like glue. You could easily have quit your position as manager and gotten another equally well-paying job when Erik began playing his games. But you didn't. You were right in the middle of extraordinary events, and you couldn't bear to leave then. Just like you haven't completely taken leave of your senses now. You want to know how it will end for you. You want to know what the newspapers will whisper about in the morning."

Firmin shivered as the Harpy sliced through the first rope wrapped around his chest as if it were no more than a thread. _Who was Erik?_

"That is your tragedy, monsieur," the doctor said, continuing to cut ropes away. "Although you know how this will end for you, you never knew what any of this was all about. And you never will."

With a flick of his wrist, Dr. Lecter cut the next-to-last rope binding Firmin to the wheeled carrier, and rolled him to the edge of the balcony. The wheels were high enough that the balcony pressed against the man's knees. He whimpered like a child. His wife would be furious when he didn't return home. She would think he was off on another of his drunken, gambling escapades. _Oh cherie, I am sorry…_

"Adieu," the doctor said in a hollow voice, not bothering to look into Firmin's frightened eyes.

A flash of the Harpy up the victim's front, and an agonized scream rent the silence of the theater. The empty seats fixed their ever-upward gaze upon the balconies as an unprecedented drama played out above them. The heavy body of a man fell through the air before stopping with a jerk. His blood completed the fall, landing with a breathless curse among the seats and the resounding snap of a breaking body filled the air like a burst of applause.

Hannibal Lecter turned his back upon the gruesome spectacle and shut the door behind him. Had he known that a scene even more hideous lay in his very near future, he would have never turned away.

-----------------------

She had thought only about getting out, getting away from it all. As a result, she had found herself swaying in a rainstorm atop the roof of the Opera House, staring into the eyes of a figure that seemed to be the embodiment of night. The rain ran cold down the back of her neck, as cold as the gaze upon her. The apparition's amber eyes had gleamed in the darkness, yet even without that clue, she would not have failed to identify him.

The Phantom of the Opera had not been in high spirits last night. She could see as much. Clarice would have expected otherwise, considering the magnitude of his revenge against the incompetent managers. But the figure had been downcast, clinging to the roof of the Opera as if it were a nest rather than a throne. He seemed to shrink within his massive cloak.

She was aware of when he had turned his eyes upon her. She _felt_ when he began opening the doors inside her mind — and when he recoiled and fled.

She had come away from that adventure confused, intrigued, and suffering from the early stages of hypothermia. She had returned to an empty mansion, and, after glancing about to make sure Hannibal was not around, poured herself an ample amount of hard liquor.

The alcohol warmed her body while dulling her mind, and that was exactly how she liked it. Yet her mind was denied rest that night as she dreamed of dark corridors, invisible footsteps, and bright, unbearable light.

She awoke the next morning with a dark sense of foreboding. It didn't take her long to confirm the reality of her dread.

It was hard to say which story the newspapers featured more prominently in their headlines: the disaster of the falling chandelier, the shocking rumors of the engagement of Vicomte Raoul de Chagny to a chorus girl, or the devastating discovery of the body of Monsieur Richard Firmin, disemboweled and hanging from a private theater box.

Before long, the phone at the de Londres estate was ringing off the hook: Andre, Raoul (although he would neither confirm nor deny rumors of an engagement), and other nobles the Fells had never spoken to wanted to do nothing but discuss the heinous crime.

Clarice answered all the calls patiently with a well-practiced tone, cheery and paper-thin. As her mouth formed soothing, senseless words, numbness enveloped her entire soul. Denial pulsed through her body like even beats of music even as she remembered the clues she should have recognized. The stiffness in his gait. The distance in his eyes. The restrained hunger and wildness in his gaze.

She had no doubts about who had committed this crime. The method was too public and – she hated to think it – _crude_ for the Phantom's taste. And the circumstances were too similar to Florence…and she had been too much of a fool to prevent it.

_What happens now?_

From a quick glance outside, Clarice could see that Hannibal had not taken the carriage. Therefore she would receive no warning before she would hear the key turn in the lock and she would have face him.

No. She set her jaw rigidly. _He_ would have to face _her_.

But for once, they had never discussed his previous life. They preferred, always, to solve problems in the oldest language of the world, that which required no words, their minds joining and understanding each other, sharing closeness beyond that of the flesh.

But for once, the day they left the States for Paris.

"Hannibal, I love you, and I will not try to change who or what you are. All I ask of you is that you show me the same courtesy."

"Understood."

Understood…

Hannibal Lecter may have accepted her request, but there was no possible way that he could have understood. Not when he had not known at that moment who or what she was.

Clarice had fully expected to die that night more than a year ago. Even in her drugged state, she knew that Hannibal wanted to mold her into something special…something that could then be removed, making room available for something—someone else.

It was hard to say who was more shocked when he went down on his knee in front of her, accepting her offering. He had ceased using the drugs on her after that night, and both of them had asked no questions, for fear that what they had created would slip away.

Now she could feel the past year slipping from reach, drowning beneath the surface of the darkness that had once again appeared, cloaking her memories with a mocking shadow.

Clarice's head snapped up with the speed of a cobra as she heard the faint scratching of a key turning in the front door lock. A quick glance at the clock told her that it was four o'clock in the afternoon. Dr. Lecter would have accomplished the deed the previous night and had no reason to return this late. _Where had he gone?_

She heard the rhythm of his footsteps, steady and even as her heartbeat. There was one door between the hallway and the parlor where she was sitting. She heard the footsteps stop in front of the door and for the longest time there was silence.

And then he knocked.

_Tap. Tap._ Clarice's head pulsated with the noise, soft as a whisper and grating as nails across slate.

_Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door – This it is and nothing more…_

_Tap. Tap._ The words of Poe pulsed through her mind, the meter of its cheerless words as regular and discomfiting as the current rhythmic rapping upon the parlor door.

"Enter, monsieur," she said, the words heavy and crystal-clear.

The door swung open like a whisper of silk on its well-oiled hinges, and she gazed solemnly at the sight before her.

_Darkness there and nothing more…_

He was wearing a different suit than the one she had seen yesterday. This one was jet black with high boots that gave his legs a pinched, narrow appearance. The boots were damp and dirty. His suit jacket was immaculate and buttoned all the way, leaving only a tiny triangle of white visible below his collarbone.

There was a mahogany dresser against the wall, and, as she watched, he leaned upon it, pushing the door closed with a small click. She could not read his eyes.

"What woman calls her husband 'monsieur' within her own house?" he said at last.

This felt uncomfortably different from their typical mind games. This time, she did not know where she stood.

"What man knocks on the door of his own house?" she replied coolly, watching him as a charmer would watch a snake. 

He spread his hands in a small gesture of concession. "A man who is unsure of the reception awaiting him."

She snorted. "At least you're not denying it."

He tilted his head and looked at her in question. "Denying what? I assumed you would be upset that I was away for so long."

"Stop playing games, Hannibal. This is not the time."

"Oh, I believe it is the perfect time." Like a shadow, he leaned away from the dresser and moved towards her with a fluid gait. She stood up without even realizing that she had done so. "We are circling each other like hostile animals," he said, "neither willing to broach the subject of contention, neither sure of what the other _knows_."

Clarice growled in frustration. "Where were you all morning, Hannibal? Washing the blood from your hands and covering your tracks?"

He raised one eyebrow. "In fact, I was meeting with M. Andre. It is my job, I believe, as patron to keep abreast of happenings at the Opera."

"Including the happenings that you caused?"

"My dear," he said, his eyes glittering dangerously, "if you have something to say, please do so in plain words."

Biting back an accusation of hypocrisy, Clarice looked into his face furiously, finding it as firmly closed as the doors to his mind. "I'm talking about a certain _misfortune_ which befell one M. Firmin of the Paris Opera House, after the performance when the chandelier fell. The same performance that you so inconveniently could not attend."

"I must admit I was told nothing of the sort. I was told, however, that Andre needed a new partner to manage the Opera House. I told him that I had someone in mind." He looked pointedly at Clarice whose face, if possible, lost yet more color as her fury grew.

"You—don't you dare tell me that you killed that man for me."

"I have told you nothing of the sort. You drew your own conclusions."

"What _else_ could I possibly conclude, Hannibal Lecter? This isn't the first time you've done something like this." When she got no response, she continued, seething. "So you insist on letting Christine make her own choice – yes, I remember, does that surprise you? – But you think nothing of making this sort of decision for me!"

"Are you saying you don't want the job?"

"You know perfectly well what I'm saying."

"I do," he retorted as his eyes narrowed. "I also know that you made your decision a year ago. If you were anyone else, I would inquire whether it has slipped your mind."

"The man didn't deserve that."

"I had no idea you felt so amiable toward him."

"He was a chauvinistic, thoughtless, selfish idiot. But he was also harmless, not to mention _heavily publicized_ from the _heavily public_ way you killed him."

"Judging from the warm exchange between the two of you yesterday evening, he was an idiot who suspected something about you. He was a danger to us."

"Don't be stupid, Hannibal. It doesn't suit you." Clarice watched him stiffen in anger, her eyes steely. "You didn't murder him to protect us. If you had, you would not have locked me out of your plans. If you had, you would have tucked the body away in some alley where he would never be found. Instead you hanged him from an opera box and spilled his intestines in the middle of the most popular theater in Paris. And don't think I can't tell that you fucked with his mind before killing him. I can see it in your eyes."

"And what do you see, Clarice, what do you see?" Hannibal walked forward and stopped with his face inches from hers. "What do you see in the eyes of this…murderer?"

She flinched but her voice was steady. "Ecstasy. Perverse delight from taking a man's worthless life."

Hannibal blinked and did not back away. "Do you mean to tell me that you didn't know what you were getting when you chose me?"

"No, Hannibal. I'm saying that _you_ didn't when you chose _me_."

He recoiled as if she had struck him, moving barely an inch, but moving nevertheless. "What?" he whispered in disbelief.

"What did you think, doctor? That I was an adventurous girl who fell for the bad boy? That I had nothing better to do than throw away everything I had once believed?"

"From your behavior, I would hazard a guess that neither of those options are correct. So why don't you tell me, Clarice?"

She scoffed. "If I had to do that, then we wouldn't be here right now. You know as well as I do what it was. You revealed certain _things_ to me, and I drew certain _conclusions_ about myself from those things. And you know what they are, you know every time I look into your face, a face that had been the last thing so many people saw on earth, with nothing but desire in my eyes. No, there must have been something more for her to fall for the social outcast."

"You give society too much credit. We've been through this before, Clarice. You can't reduce me to a set of influences."

"Oh, I think I can. You forget, Hannibal, I know you better than anyone else in the world. Better even than you know yourself…You see, you're driven by the desire to _possess_. Ever since you failed to save your sister, you've been determined to regain what was lost to you through her death. So whether that means living in luxury for a picture-perfect life or possessing the flesh of those you feel unworthy to walk this earth…"

She saw his fingers beginning to tremble and took that as a sign to continue. "God failed you, and in doing so, he failed the world, so you took his place. How does it feel to spill someone's lifeblood upon the ground, my dear? How does it feel to determine whether someone lives or dies? You're a selfish man, Hannibal: educated and intelligent, but at heart a selfish man, nothing more.

"And what would Mischa say?" – her voice lowered to a cruel whisper – "What would your dear innocent sister say if she could see what you have become? And to know that _she_ was responsible—"

"ENOUGH!"

A firestorm was raging in his eyes, and his right hand trembled even as it shot out and wrapped itself around her throat. The breath was harsh in his lungs and an intense roar filled his ears as he felt his pulse, swift and uncontrolled, racing through fingertips buried in her soft flesh.

Panic, fleeting and terrible in its intensity, seized her body and Clarice felt walls in her memory palace tremble and buckle under its weight. Then she was throwing herself against the wall, against the exit that was on the verge of caving in upon her. Her hands were clawing at the edges of the door – there was no knob – her nails were tearing from her fingers in her fury as the wood splintered beneath her assault. And when she at last had opened a human-sized hole, she stepped through, raising a trembling, bloodied hand to what lay beyond.

Dimly through his white-faced fury, Hannibal saw her hand rising and, with a cool and inexorable touch, pulling his fingers from her throat enough to allow her breath. With her other hand, she lifted his chin and forced him to look into her eyes.

"Do you remember…when we first met…" Her voice was perfectly controlled as she caressed the fingers that encircled her fragile neck, "…I asked you if you feared to point your high-powered perception at yourself. If you could…look at yourself and write down what you saw. You can't, Hannibal, you know you can't. That is what I do…I am your mirror and you are mine." She forced him to loosen his iron grip even more and reached one hand up to follow the curve of his rigid jaw.

"Do I frighten you, Hannibal?" Her voice was calm and unhurried as she caressed his cheek. "I hope I do. I hope to God I do."

They remained in their grotesque parody of an embrace for a moment, each searching for something, anything in the other's eyes that would explain this unbelievable situation. The grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour.

Hannibal discovered his hand beginning to shake and tighten once again around her, causing her skin to flush the faintest blue.

Then his fingers leaped from her throat as if they had been burned and he turned away from her, his face an unyielding stonewall crumbling underneath its own weight. He crossed the room swiftly and slammed the door of his study behind him.

Clarice stood in the middle of the parlor for an eternity. She then crossed the floor, lowering herself into a sofa. The horsehair upon the cushions pricked her skin through the fabric of her damp gown.

There was silence. A silence now that seemed louder than all the screams she had heard in her life. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, she felt as if everything was closing in around her. She was once again in the dark barn, in the basement of the mental hospital, panic-stricken from the screams resounding around her…

She rubbed her throat and arms briskly to return feeling to them as her limbs shivered violently. She felt cold.

A noise was intruding.

She felt heavy, wrapped in layers of thick, suffocating wool, as if she had just awakened from an overlong nap, too brief for satisfaction and too long for comfort. A noise was intruding.

Her body could not stop trembling. Perhaps she could use something more to drink—

A noise was intruding.

Clarice started as she realized that someone had been knocking at the door for the better part of a minute. She opened the door to see Mariana quivering as much as she was, her hand poised to knock again.

"Madam…" she said in broken French, "I-I'm sorry, but there is a lady at the door for you."

Clarice took one look at the maid's frightened expression on her face. "Did you hear us?"

"I heard lou-loud noises, madam, but I was not nearby." She paused and gulped. "I-I will tell the caller that you are busy."

A layer of something fell from Clarice's expression, and she sighed, knowing that her strange appearance must be frightening the maid out of her wits.  "Nonsense, Mariana. Show her in."

The woman fidgeted. "Dare I ask—?"

"No." The icy façade returned to her face before softening as Mariana began to tremble again. "You have no need to worry for my welfare," Clarice said wearily. "I will be perfectly fine."

The maid bowed and closed the door quickly behind her. Clarice could hear her voice, muffled by the door. "Come in, mademoiselle Daae. The Duchess will be right with you."

_Shit_.

Could she pretend to be sick? No, she had already promised to receive her.

Too much was happening in one day…Too late, too late now, and no way to go but forward…

Clarice took a deep breath, attempting to calm her nerves. Her eyes flew once to the closed study door. There was only silence beyond it. A quick glance in the mirror told her that the red marks had faded from her neck, although there would be bruises in the morning.

She pushed the door open and walked into the hallway with her chin high and her expression cold.

Christine was sitting in the waiting room. She was wearing a blue dress with lace frill and a traveling cloak was thrown over the armrest of her chair. Clarice recognized it as the same one she had taken from the singer's dressing room that morning so long ago. Christine had not yet seen her and, as she watched, the young woman fidgeted with the folds of her dress, rolling them through her fingers as intently and nervously as she would a rosary.

"Christine?"

She started, a frightened look upon her face that did not diminish when she turned and saw Clarice. The older woman softened her expression, remembering that Christine had no reason to suspect anything.

"Madam," the young woman said, standing suddenly, "I have come to ask a – a favor."

"What is it?"

"I feel awkward asking this of you, but I have no one else to turn to. I apologize for taking you up on your offer of assistance so soon, I still feel I hardly know you but…" she was babbling now. She took a deep breath. "I need to borrow your husband's carriage."

"What for?"

"There—there is someone I need to see in the town of Perros-Guirec. And…I would prefer that neither of you said anything about this to Raoul."

"Is it true that the two of you are engaged then?"

The young woman's eyes flew open and Clarice nearly smiled at the transparency of her emotions. Another layer of something fell from her visage and she felt blood returning to her veins. "Never fear, mademoiselle. I am not a woman prone to gossip." _Was that disappointment she heard in her own voice? Nonsense, the girl was perfectly free to choose whom she would…_

"However," she continued, "would it not be more convenient then to ask for his assistance?"

"I…don't want to involve him. You see, I am out of money, and I don't want him worrying about me. Especially when he should just be happy."

"I see." Clarice frowned in thought. She saw Christine begin to fidget again, the fear visible once more in her face.

Clarice looked sadly at the young woman so eager to please and so frightened of disappointment. _None of this should have happened to her. Eventually, she will break under the weight._

"A young girl should not be traveling to Brittany by herself," she said at last. "I will lend you the carriage if I may accompany you on your journey."

"Thank you, madam, that would be fine. Won't your husband be worried?"

Clarice clenched her jaw tightly, the memory of Hannibal's hands around her throat quickening her breaths. The need to escape from the house grew in intensity. "He will not be concerned," she said brusquely. "I journey frequently."

She walked to a nearby wardrobe and retrieved a scarf. There would be bruises on her neck by morning. Christine had already fastened her cloak. She opened the front door while asking, "Who is it you are visiting in Perros? It is a very small village." Christine's response nearly caused her to abandon her plans.

"My father."

Clarice's hand tightened upon the doorknob before she gave a curt nod. She stepped outside after Christine and shut the door. From behind the study door, there was only silence.

The midautumn sun was already setting when they set out from the de Londres estate. It shone blood-red in the sky, well past the point of no return, committed now to a steady journey downwards into night fraught with the chill of approaching winter.


	8. Against the Dying of the Light

In This Labyrinth 

--------------

A/N: Another change in canon has been made: Christine's father died a lot earlier in her life than LeRoux said. The reasons for this will be apparent later if they are not already. Certain verses have been taken from "Do not go gentle into that good night" written by Dylan Thomas. 

Kudos and major thanks to reviewers, especially Clariz, Fantome, and ginnymanytongues, for hanging in there this long. Plenty more fun waits ahead.

Alright then, straight to the new chapter. Erik is back and Raoul is not (well, not really). What more could you ask for? ;)

Chapter 8 

**Against the Dying of the Light**

They arrived in Lainnon after the sun had breached the horizon and there was ample light to find a carriage that would take them to Perros. On the way, the horse threw a shoe and they were delayed for nearly half an hour. As the coachman tended to his animal, Clarice glanced at her companion.

Christine really had brought a rosary, and, as Clarice watched, she rolled it through her fingers quickly, with trembling fingers. Her nervousness and impatience were manifested by a tic in her forehead. She started with fright when the driver announced that they were ready to go.

They arrived in Perros at noon. After having a quick lunch at the inn, Clarice paid for two rooms, ignoring Christine's protests. The extra money did not concern her. She could tell that Christine needed her time alone.

However, after they had finished their meal, Christine settled the cloak around her shoulders once more, signaling her intention to depart right away. Clarice hesitated and then followed her.

The graveyard was a small one, clinging to the edge of the village proper and seemingly forgotten by its inhabitants. Although the grass was kept cut to a considerate height, the skeletons of wildflowers sprouted from the sides of gravestones and etchings upon the markers were worn and faded from the elements. Bare trees stood around the small square of green like a natural fence, their twisted limbs empty of all leaves. Clarice was sure that this place would have been beautiful in the spring, the blooming wildflowers and surrounding trees lending the place an air of dryad loveliness.

As it was, it was autumn, a season that was now rapidly dying away into winter. Clarice felt the chill winds blow in from the nearby ocean and buried her chin deeper into her scarf. A small church stood in the center of the graveyard, its entrance boarded up, and weeds stubborn enough to survive the frigid temperatures peeked from every visible crevice. The bell tower, gutted to its frame, shuddered weakly from each gust of cold wind.

Next to the church, in stark contrast to the humble gravestones, stood a towering mausoleum. It was in front of that solemn, cold structure that they now stopped, Clarice standing back a little ways, a sense of propriety not the only thing keeping her from getting too close to the tomb. A familiar feeling of nausea was invading her insides, the cause of which she knew only too well. She watched as Christine reached forward, almost timidly, to touch the side of the immense tomb. Upon the white marble was etched the name of the resident within. The letters were faded with time and a deep indentation in the stone made the first few letters illegible.

"Charles Daae."

Clarice looked up as she heard Christine speak, so softly she could hardly hear.

"It's been ten years now. My father has been dead for more of my life than alive. But I can never read this name and think of my father. Daddy had no name; he was simply my father. He was my everything. Nothing I could ever call him would encompass everything he was to me." She stroked the marble with sad, trembling fingers. "I keep dreaming that my daddy is still out there somewhere, that this is someone else buried here. That if I just dreamed…somehow, he would be here." She made a small, choking sound in her throat and wiped at her eyes, "I'm sorry, I must sound very foolish right now." She turned sheepishly to face Clarice.

The Duchess' appearance shocked her. The stately, proud woman seemed to tremble from a chill within her own body. Her body shriveled within her dress, and her eyes were glassy with barely-concealed pain.

"No, mademoiselle." Her voice, however, was as steadily soothing as ever. "Not at all."

Pause. A second passes, crawling by on little feet like ants, insistent and impulsive.

"My father…died, too, when I was very young."

Christine's head came up, her eyes wide.

Try as she might to hold back, the words spilled out of her mouth like water, a torrent of buried memories and refreshed pain. "I was not born into nobility, Christine. My father was a low-level police officer, a night watchman. One night, some burglars who didn't want to go to prison shot him through the heart." She took a deep shuddering breath. "The agency buried him in a pressboard coffin and took back his badge. They said it cost them seven dollars."

_Why did she say such things? Why, now, were memories tucked away in permanent storage demanding to see light again?_

Clarice felt another layer of something fall away from her body, and she shuddered. She knew then that she had damaged more than their relationship during the confrontation with Hannibal. She felt the jagged edges of her memory palace, originally smoothed by love, rear their ugly, distorted heads.

An invisible hand had torn away her last vestige of strength, as a scar is torn prematurely from a wound, leaving her raw and sore.

She looked up to see Christine staring at her with something akin to fright in her eyes. A dainty hand came up to cover her mouth. "Oh madam, I-I'm so sorry. You should not have come."

Clarice shook her head and lifted her shining eyes to face the cold air. "You have nothing for which to apologize. You have nothing for which to mourn. This town adored your father: they gave him the best they had." She stared hard at the young woman for a moment, seeing her pale skin, her fragile eyes. "Cherish his memory, Christine. Know that nothing can ever take that away from you. And let him go."

Christine's expression did not change: she continued to stare, slightly open-mouthed, at the woman standing beside her. The Duchess was someone who had comforted her when she wept. She was a strong woman in her eyes, immune to the weaknesses of the human spirit. The frailty that Christine saw now frightened her.

She was easily frightened when those she admired turned out to be very different from what she expected.

She turned away, unwilling that Clarice should see her fear. The duchess had been nothing but kind and good to her. Her eyes raced over every inch of her father's tomb, searching for something, anything that she could focus on and therefore forget her traitorous emotions. Her gaze alighted upon something white on the ground in front of the tomb.

Bending over, she picked up a white rosebud in her fingers. The flower was fresh and unbruised; a stranger had left it there no more than a few days ago. Bringing the flower to her face and breathing in the sweet aroma, Christine recalled her knowledge of the Victorian language of flowers.

Girlhood.

_A heart innocent of love._

She nearly smiled at the appropriateness of the symbol and tucked the rosebud into the clasp of her cloak. "Sometimes Daddy would get flowers after performing on his violin," she said absent-mindedly. "He would put them in my hair when he did, saying that things so pretty belonged with his angel. Where is his angel nowww?" The last word distorted and her arms went around herself, her shoulders shuddering dangerously.

Clarice chose her next words carefully. "I will be waiting at the gate for you, Christine. Take as long as you need." And then she turned and walked away, unwilling to take part in this scene any longer.

For a time there was only the dull sound of her footsteps through the dead grass. Gradually her progress grew slower and slower, as if a hook were attached to her heart, slowing and finally stopping her in her tracks as the line pulled taut. She could not turn away now, she could not… She paused underneath an oak tree, her feet crunching the withered leaves. Even from this distance she heard as Christine began to sing. The words carried crystal-clear across the frozen air and made her want to weep. The words spoke of a time that comforted even as it tormented, a time unwilling to be forgotten, clinging to the mind like hair to a little girl's sticky face on a hot summer day.

_Help me say goodbye…_

Clarice saw Christine mouth the words before she heard them physically, the notes settling in her ear soft as down feathers.

She turned away when Christine fell to her knees before the tomb to bury her face in her hands. She focused her sight upon a withered oak tree, its bare branches polished smooth by years of wind and rain. The branches shuddered in the bitter wind that carried the sound of sobbing to her ears, however she attempted to ignore it. Clarice felt as if her heart were being twisted in a vise; the sobs rang in her ear, high-pitched and desperate like a child's. There was no sense of release in the young girl's tears: they were fraught with the disbelief and anguish of a fresh wound.

There was nothing in his mind except the music, the swirling miasma of melodies clamoring and fighting to be written down. The notes came so fast that he could hardly put them all on paper. He scrawled the final phrase upon the page and tore it from the stand so roughly that the paper's edge sliced open the side of his hand. His blood intermingled with the frenzied scrawl of notes upon the page in matching scarlet splashes.

_Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight…learn, too late, they grieved it on its way…_

Was it possible to love one's own tormentor? Erik thought so. The coffin that had served as his bed for many years rested a few feet away from the organ, looming in the shadows like a slumbering beast. In the flickering half-light of his kingdom a breath away from hell, he embraced and cursed the darkness that consumed his body. It seeped into every corner and dark recess of his mind, and he screamed like the damned at this invasion: clawing, caressing, weeping, laughing…and always, always writing. Into those blood-red patterns upon the pages were poured all the sadness, madness, and laughter of the world.

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light…_

Erik retrieved the sheet of music he had just set down atop the piano, droplets of his blood still clinging to the edges of the paper. With determined strokes, he crossed out a passage of tearful semi-tone phrases and replaced them with harder whole tones brimming with anger and wildness. There was no room for grief in his magnum opus. No room for anything except the fire he wrought within an angry and bitter soul. Anger towards his prison that he dared to call a home. Anger towards the light that had driven him here.

The foundations of the Opera House groaned as the organ lifted its torturous melodies to the heavens: melodies that were then trapped, battling their way through cold stone.

Hannibal Lecter stood before his study window, watching his land go gently into the good night. Shadows moved across the dying meadows like wraiths, creeping up the brick façade of the house and pouring into the window to move across the carpeted floor.

She was gone. He did not know for how long.

He had time now. And so he continued to stand before the window, looking out into nothing. He did not know for how long.

The next morning, Christine exited her room wordlessly when Clarice knocked upon the door. Their things had been taken to the station the previous evening, and Christine had nothing with which to occupy her hands during the carriage ride. Clarice waited for her to start fidgeting again, waited for the childish impatience to reassert itself; anything to reassure her that something of Christine remained inside this hollow shell that sat before her now. The young woman did not move. She folded her hands in her lap and leaned against the side of the carriage, the traveling cloak draped over her shoulders like a funeral shroud. There was a hollow, empty gaze in her eyes that would have better befitted a corpse.

Her expression did not change as they boarded the train that would return them to Paris. The pale sun disappeared behind a gray cloudbank as the promise of a storm growled through the sky. The cold, metal train belched its fire into the heavens like a blasphemous sacrifice as it shrieked through the cold air, indifferent to the broken lives it carried within its belly.

The sensation of needles being driven into his forearm finally led him to shift his gaze from the music stand. He looked down to see Ayesha perched atop his arm, meowing most piteously and driving her claws into his flesh.

Erik cursed inwardly as he extricated the claws from his arm and lifted the cat in his hands. Good God. From the height of the still-burning candles, he realized that he must not have fed her for days. He closed his eyes in pain. Must he always hurt those around him?

Cradling the trembling cat in his arms, Erik slid off the organ bench to sit upon the carpeted floor littered with fallen leaves of music, the side of the coffin hard against his back…

_The rest of the summer of 1863 passed in a blur of slow, mind-numbing days and exhilarating nights. Every evening after the workers had gone home, Erik would linger before making his way to the oak tree on the edge of the site where Dr. Fell would be waiting. And they would talk. Their conversation moved from topic to topic as smoothly as a novel moves from chapter to chapter. The doctor was well versed in art, literature, and medicine although he had not studied architecture as extensively as Erik, who helped him correct some minute errors in his sketches of the Opera House. The doctor also had never traveled further east than Prussia, and Erik found himself describing the wild, rich, and corrupt lands of Russia and the Orient, careful never to reveal his exact function in the Persian courts that he described in such vivid detail. In turn, Dr. Fell told him about America, its paradoxical balance of agriculture and industry swaying in the chaos of war. He had had no wish to become involved in the idiotic power struggle and had retreated to his residence in Florence the moment war had been imminent._

_"The worst part of war will always be the lies they tell themselves to justify the mindless slaughter. This time, the common mantra is 'Free the slaves.' In truth, the Union could care less about Negroes toiling away in the Southern cotton fields. They care about bringing a delinquent group of states back into the Union; they believe their system of government is flawless, you see, and they can't stand the embarrassment of some of their own trying to escape the system. Wars, whether personal or national, have always been about pride."_

_No matter how engaging the particular conversation, Erik always behaved the same way during every one of their meetings. He would stand rigidly against the tree, pressing his body into the shadow and letting his hat cast his face into even deeper darkness. Although the doctor had shown himself to be quite disinterested in his mask, a lifetime of habit was hard to break. Tonight was no different. Erik's voice spoke from the shadows of the tree, his eyes two glittering pieces of obsidian: "I have always respected you as an intelligent man, Dr. Fell. Don't insult me with your cheap metaphors. If you have something to say to me, say it plainly."_

_"My words hold no more meaning than you give them credit for, Erik. Good night." And he was gone once again._

Christine gave Clarice directions to her residence in a monotone voice. When the carriage pulled up before the door to her flat, the young woman seemed to come alive for the first time that day. Yet her cheery voice that thanked Clarice for her kindness was as empty of emotion as her eyes: her bright blue gaze was stretched skin-tight over empty, sunken sockets, the clarity muted, swimming in darkness.

She watched her walk to the door. Her long black cloak trailed upon the ground behind her as she stumbled up the steps like an old crippled woman.

Clarice felt something swelling inside of her, pushing painfully against the walls of her chest. She swallowed and tasted bitter bile. Observing the young woman's stony face and looking into her dead eyes, she felt as if part of her spirit had died along with Christine's. A life wasted, a vibrant young spirit condemned to linger forever amidst ghosts of the past. Her throat made a strangled sob as she whipped the horses into a furious gait and just as quickly made her decision.

_The world will not be this way within the reach of my arm._

Because of Hannibal's bloody exploit, her reach had grown quite long indeed. Emerging upon the main road, Clarice turned the horses in the opposite direction of home, aiming her vehicle like Apollo's fiery chariot towards his distant lyre perched deftly atop the building where her future awaited with bated breath.

_"You have seen the Villa Medici?"_

_Dr. Fell looked up for the briefest moment and then lowered his eyes back to the sketch in question. "Yes…I have."_

_"In an _official_ capacity?"_

_The pencil moved lazily over the sketch, lightly shading in the inside of an arch. "You speak of the Prix de Rome? The greatest honor that can be bestowed upon a young composer? Perhaps. I am familiar with the competition. Hordes of hopeful young men are locked into tiny rooms for the period of a month and obligated to compose cantatas about rosy dawns and heavenly sunsets. The most agreeable piece is chosen and the lucky composer is presented with a medal of gold and the adulation of the public before he is locked away in the Villa Medici for the next two years, where he is expected to create more agreeable pieces for the public."_

_Erik laughed softly. "There is a bitter tone about your words, monsieur."_

_"Truly?" Dr. Fell's laugh was just as soft as Erik's and twice as cold. "Nothing is more bitter than the truth."_

_"Did you participate in the competition?"_

_Dr. Fell shut his sketchbook firmly and stood. His hands trembled slightly at his sides. "I was no Frenchman, monsieur. Nor was I highborn, and nor would the judges have cared for any of _my_ work. Good night."_

_It was the most the doctor ever revealed to him about his past._

Andre was shocked when the Duchesse de Londres burst into his office, looking up from his perusal of his late partner's bottle of scotch when he heard her loud knock. He rubbed furiously at something at the corner of his eye, well aware of his haggard, unshaven appearance.

"What do you want?" Andre asked, too weary and confused to remember his manners.

"To assist you, monsieur," said Clarice in a hard-edged voice. "I heard about the tragedy. My husband and I have put too much effort into the Opera to have it fail now."

Andre blinked as he attempted to process the words being shouted at him. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," he said at last.

"Nonsense, monsieur. My husband tells me that you are talking of closing the theater!" She knew that Hannibal had told her nothing of the sort. She also knew that Andre was definitely too blind drunk at the moment to remember otherwise.

Andre got up from his chair heavily and took a step towards her. He swayed upon his feet and grabbed the edge of his desk, settling back into a sitting position. "He was…a good man, madam. Coarse in his manner and he gambled too freely but…he never meant anyone any harm." He looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes. "Who would do something like thi—"

Clarice made a disapproving sound low in her throat. "Enough of that talk, monsieur. Leave that to the police. You have a business to run now."

"I can't…not by myself, I can't."

"As I said, monsieur. I am here to assist you."

Andre lifted his eyes to her again, the bewildered look back in his gaze.

IIt was a game, a game in which talked of everything and nothing. It was a contest to see which of them was the greatest mystery. They ran themselves ragged within the twisted labyrinths of each other's minds, seeking no goal, knowing there was no goal to be found. It was not a game of winners and losers. It was a contest of wills and the wills derived joy from knowing that, for the first time, they locked horns with an equal. 

Such a game can never be finished; whether by chance or by its own nature, an open invitation is extended to fate. And then fate does what it does best./i

Clarice Starling closed and locked the door behind her, scanning the small, worn dressing room with a practiced gaze.

She found the switch that operated the counterweight behind the mirror in less than half an hour.

She stared, awestruck, as the enormous pane of glass swung on its pivot, throwing facets of brilliant light upon the peeling walls. The glass turned and Clarice saw, for the briefest moment, the dark mouth of a hallway before the glass swung back into place. Stepping down from the stool, she made a mental mark of the place in the wallpaper pattern to press to activate the mirror.

Monsieur le Fantome, what are these games you play? These games so remarkably intricate and sophisticated in their construction yet nothing more than child's play in their purpose.

As new assistant manager of the Opera Garnier, Clarice Starling had a key that would open every door in the theater. And those entrances not appearing in the blueprints, she thought, staring once again at the innocent face of the mirror, she would find. She would discover the secrets of the Phantom of the Opera, so that when she finally sought him out, she would be prepared. She would find out what dark hold he had over Christine's mind.

And she would determine whether to hinder or to aid him when she did.

All she needed was time and time she had in abundance. Andre estimated six months before the Opera would be fit to open again.

_When the summer of 1866 arrived, Erik found, despite himself, that he was eagerly anticipating Dr. Fell's arrival. The war in the States was over, and the doctor had returned home, promising to return to Paris for the summer. But when he approached the tree, he could tell that the doctor was not there. By the end of July, he had still failed to appear. Inquiries to Garnier got him nowhere. It was as if he had simply vanished from the face of the earth. _

_Then came the day he found the copy of an international newspaper lying in a wastebasket. He would have ignored it had he not seen the photograph and its accompanying headlines._

_Hannibal the Cannibal..._

In her flat, Christine Daae lay in a fetal position upon her bed, clutching Raoul's ring where it hung about her neck with her right hand. In her sweaty left hand, she gripped the stem of the white rosebud she had found at her father's grave. Tracks of dried tears were still visible upon her face. A sliver of light from the setting sun peeked through the drawn curtains and she wriggled away from it, screwing up her eyes against the unwelcome brightness.

She wanted to see Raoul now more than ever. Wanted to see his bright smile and hear his laughter; he was a memory of her childhood, of stories told in the attic and a red scarf floating upon the gentle sea. But she could not marry him, not yet, she wasn't ready. She would tell Raoul so the next morning. She needed time to think, a few months perhaps. Yes, a few months would be enough.

Hannibal Lecter sat at the piano bench within his darkened study, gazing over the music stand through the window at the dying light barely visible on the horizon. He touched the keys lightly, his fingers finding the chords that his eyes could not. The song that he played was very old, written in 1510 by King Henry VIII. It was an elegy of love written with his mistress Anne Boleyn in mind, years before he had her beheaded.

_If love now reigned as it hath been and were rewarded as it hath since…_

His fingers froze over the keyboard, refusing to play anymore and eventually he curled them into his palms, withdrawing them into his lap.

What a maudlin image he must present, he thought wryly.

He needed time to think.

Ayesha lay asleep, well-fed and curled contentedly atop a stack of sheet music on the organ.

Erik, who had sated his hunger in a different way, sat at the bench, gazing blissfully at the feline's sleeping form. His breathing had slowed to a comfortably lethargic rate and a pleasant tingling sensation radiated through his skin from the throbbing mass of collapsed veins in the crook of his right elbow. His pupils had contracted to the tiniest points of darkness, enclosing himself within the world of his own night far kinder than that of the damp Parisian cellars. 

There had been so much anger, so many angry notes bleeding through his eyes…but now – his gaze drifted up to Ayesha's sleeping form – he did not wish to wake her. Reaching up, he buried his hand into the Siamese cat's soft fur and rubbed her back. He felt his trembling fingers calming against the rhythm of her contented purr. With his other hand, he picked out the first few bars of a haunting lullaby.

"Thank you, _ma petite_."

The cat stirred drowsily in her sleep and rolled onto her side, completely ignoring him. Erik smiled as he reached forward to record the passage he had just played.

It was nearly done now. His magnum opus, transcribing music from the very heights of human happiness to the bottomless pits of its despair and lurking everywhere, peeking around the dissonant chords and hanging upon each suspension was the cursed, desired, and dreaded wraith that was hope. When the piece was finished, it would shake the Opera House to its foundations.

_The games we've played till now are at an end…_

All he needed were a few months more. Yes, just a few months more and he would be ready. With a light breath, he blew out the candles surrounding the organ and settled into the coffin, resigning himself to the whims of Morpheus, king of dreams, whose namesake was even now coursing its dark, soothing path through his veins.

-----------

A/N: Well then, now that we've got all the characters interacting and into place nicely, it's time to have some _fun_. Will Hannibal and Clarice ever make up? What will happen at the first performance of Erik's masterpiece? Will Christine still make the same choice? In a fight between Clarice and Erik, who would win? (Yes, I want bets placed. :-D) That being said, this will be the last update for awhile, and by awhile, I mean at least a month. I'll be leaving for vacation tomorrow and will come back after two weeks to waiting exams. Fun, fun. Until then, adieu, adieu, and many thanks again to my reviewers!


	9. The Angel and the Nightbird

In This Labyrinth 

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A/N: Many thanks for the lovely reviews of the previous chapter, and for the enthusiastic response to the betting pool. The vote is a tight 3-2 in favor of Erik. I can't tell you which side is right, since that would be giving away too much from, IMHO, the coolest scene in the story. But I think you'll like it. Anyway, I'm back from vacation so it's time to start updating again. Onward! And with the longest chapter I've written yet! (Yeah, I'm a nerd.) I've also finally changed my screenname, the passion for _Star Wars_ has passed. ;)

I received an e-mail from a reader wondering where Nadir was in the story. As far as this AU is concerned, Nadir missed the train to Paris and ended up in Prague where he remained because of the excellent Moravian wines. I bet he's having loads of fun there. ;-D Actually, I wrote Nadir out of this story because his character would have not fit in well with Hannibal and Clarice, and because Clarice does enough police work to put him to shame.

Chapter 9 

The Angel and the Nightbird 

_Six months later…_

In the end, it came to pass because she was bored.

Last night, the new chandelier had been raised without incident and the final traces of blood had been scrubbed clean from the velvet seats. Exhausted and relieved, the new co-managers of the Opera had broken out a plentiful supply of champagne. Amidst the annoyance of her throbbing head, a souvenir of the night before, she remembered how the manners of her companions, M Andre and a few remaining stagehands, had flowed as freely as the drink.

Floating among the bubbles and the laughter, the men forgot that they were in the presence of a supposed aristocrat, one who did not deign to associate with the common people. They had talked, laughed, and drank together, and Clarice couldn't remember the last time she had enjoyed herself as much.

There had been precious little to enjoy for the past half year. She and Hannibal were speaking again, but only just. They spoke to ease the anxiety of the servants rather than out of the desire to share any meaningful conversation. As long as they made polite dinner discussion, the maids and butlers would not tiptoe in fear around the deathly silence between their employers.

What a twisted web of masks and deceit they lived in! Clarice realized now what she had known and ignored all along. Their relationship had always been about deception. From the very first day, when she had been sent as the sacrificial lamb to his dark cage, they had measured each other, tested how far the other would go. Perhaps they had even fooled themselves in the end.

So each asked the other with impeccable propriety to pass the soup or the salt and vanished from all other aspects of the other's life. If Hannibal knew of Clarice's new position at the Opera House, he gave no indication. And if Clarice worried that Hannibal never emerged from his study to sleep for more than two hours at a time, she gave no voice to her concerns.

So it came to pass that she lay upon the divan in the parlor in the very early morning after the new chandelier had been installed, massaging her sore head and feeling as if she would go out of her mind with boredom. The house was deathly silent. The servants had been given the Sunday off, and Hannibal was nowhere to be seen.

Sluggishly, her hand reached out toward the nearby table like a pale spider and gathered the weekend edition of the _L'Epoque_ in its thin fingers. Her eyes skimmed over headlines that swam in her vision as inked gibberish before settling upon a full-page advertisement in color. The name of the company passed out of her memory but her gaze fixated upon the products being offered for "60% off!". Fine dresses tempted and bejeweled masks stared back at her with their empty paper eyes.

The company was shedding the last few remnants of Mardi Gras and preparing for a new season. With a shock, Clarice realized that it was already April and that the special Tuesday had passed her by without notice like every other day before and after it.

She stared hard at the article again, noticing how the masks began to wink at her after a few seconds of forced concentration with her bleary eyes.

Masks.

She sat bolt upright on the divan, her vision amazingly clear for one second.

She had heard of the fabulous masked balls thrown by the French though she had never had the chance to attend. The Opera House was ready to be reopened, but it would take a grand event to draw back the crowds. This would be the perfect event. All classes of Opera-goers mingling with each other, unafraid of being recognized and ostracized. And the gaiety would flow as freely as the drink.

There was another thought in her mind as she scrambled from the divan and prepared to head to the stables.

_The Phantom would feel right at home_.

-----------

The Opera House at dawn was framed in golden light from the rising spring sun. With its smooth white façade and majestic pinnacle, the building looked as if it had been carved from heaven and deposited upon the earth for the awed admiration of mortals.

Letting herself in the main entrance with her key, Clarice took a moment to tremble in the grand stillness of the building. She remembered the morning many months ago when she had contemplated the building's silence in wonder. The silence had been friendly then, comforting like a mother's embrace.

Now it seemed as if the very stones were stained with blood. Clarice shook her head to rid herself of a sudden surge of vertigo as she climbed the Grand Staircase.

Her heels clicked through the empty hallways, hallways that felt uncomfortably large without the swishing skirts of giggling ballet girls and the clanking of moving scenery. Some of the revelers from the night before had not returned home, and every so often, she would round a corner to behold a worker sprawled upon the floor in drunken slumber.

Once she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, as if someone was watching her. Her steps slowed for a fraction of a second before she shook her head and continued walking. The Phantom had been slumbering for six months now. He would not awaken so soon.

She rapped loudly upon the door to the office, louder, perhaps, than would have been proper, but if Andre was in there he would not awaken easily either. She heard a sleepy shout and the sound of bone cracking against wood followed by a less sleepy exclamation.

The door opened abruptly a few seconds later and Andre, disheveled and rubbing his knee in pain, looked out at where she was standing in the hallway.

"Good morning, monsieur," Clarice said coolly.

Andre made a sound in his throat that might or might not have been a greeting in kind. Clarice smelled the sweet wine on his breath.

"Now that the chandelier has been installed, I thought that we should hurry to reopen the theater as soon as possible," she continued in a light-hearted voice.

"You awakened me to tell me that?" Andre grumbled.

"And that I had something in mind. I will need a week to prepare, no more than that."

Andre blinked for less than a minute, processing what she had just said. "Very well," he said at last, "Take care that you stay within our budget. The government will not be so forgiving a second time. Will there be a performance?"

"I think not. Our prima donna is currently…away."

"I see. In that case, you are free to make whatever preparations are necessary. That will be all, madam. Adieu." And with that he shut the door firmly in her face.

Clarice stepped away from the closed door calmly. She waited until she was several feet down the hallway before she began to smile.

Ah, how Andre loved to believe that he was in charge. What an air of bravado and control he created for the eyes of Paris! And in truth, since she had joined him in the business, there was not a single decision that he had not presented to her for approval or a single issue for which he had failed to request her advice. It had not taken long for her to recognize the frightened, indecisive child within the man. So she cheerfully put up with his brusque and sloppy manner and kept his wine glass filled at all times while she alone pulled the strings controlling the Opera.

This would be her biggest gamble.

She felt something akin to thrill swell within her. The sensation reminded her of how she felt before gunfights when she had been with the Agency. Looking up at a hallway clock, Clarice discovered that she had more than enough time to do what she desired.

Turning a corner, she emerged backstage behind the closed curtain. She picked up a lantern from the floor and descended the stairs into the cellars.

It had been six months since the Opera's enforced closure. When she had not been hassling patrons and government officials for more funds for the repair work or keeping a close eye on the ongoing (but diminishing) investigation by the Sûreté, Clarice had been exploring the basements of the Opera by the flickering half-light of this lantern.

For six months she had traversed the twisted hallways of a labyrinth that rivaled Daedalus' prison for the Minotaur in complexity, and she wished more than once for a golden thread to guide her way. As it was, she could not risk anything that would give away her presence in the Phantom's domain.

Instead, her investigative skills as keen as ever, she had made a torturously slow exploration of the damp tunnels and steep stairwells month after month. Each day she added to her mental map of the underground maze, and each day she took care to erase all signs of her presence.

She found the path that led to the mirror in Christine's room and the path that led behind the hollow panels of the managers' office. There was a path that led to a locked iron gate, beyond which she could see a moonlit street, and numerous other paths that twisted into dead-ends where she expected none and turned in never-ending circles where once had been a straight passageway. Dimly, she knew that all of the mind-bending pathways could not have been solely the work of the Communards during the revolution.

She found the underground lake by the end of the first month and found all the signal cables surrounding the shore and dipping down into the water a few days later. If the twisted maze and the obscene number of tripwires and similar traps in the corridors had not yet sent her a blatant message that she was dealing with a man that treated company most unkindly, this lake put an end to any of her doubts.

It was in front of this lake that she stopped now, lifting her lantern high, attempting to cast its light across the dark waters. The light revealed several yards of rippling, black waves shrouded with ethereal mist that faded rapidly into the darkness. There seemed to be no way across.

With a sigh, Clarice began to inch her way along the shore, stepping carefully over the signal cables. She stopped when she heard the music.

It began as a whisper, barely louder than the sigh of the water as it lapped against its dark shore, and gradually expanded in volume and intensity until it filled the cavern with its muffled grandeur. It was music such that she had never heard before and she paused, listening, unable to do otherwise. The abrasiveness of the chords was apparent even to her musically untrained ears and she winced as they grated harsher and harsher and the pounding in her ears swelled until she held a hand to her head, wincing at the pulsating pain.

Yet she could not stop listening even as she shook from within. There was an undeniable beauty about the harsh melodies and it was this beauty that held her spellbound, this beauty that worked through the mask of brutality and crept into her mind with long tendrils of sound.

There was a brief lull in the music as the player stopped, perhaps to write the next phrase, and Clarice shook herself. The cold of the underground cavern had not forgotten her as easily as she had forgotten it and she shivered as she turned to make her way back above ground.

She had to be extra careful during future journeys into the basements. The Phantom of the Opera had reawakened, and from the intensity of his music, she knew he was planning something. Clarice blinked from the bright stage lights as she emerged from the third cellar.

She would know the Opera Ghost's intentions soon enough. There was no need to hurry.

----------------

The package arrived at the de Chagny estate in the mail along with a single-page note.

The butler brought it to her upon a silver tray along with the newspaper. The newspaper was ironed and neatly folded. Christine blushed from the attention as she accepted the proffered package and paper with clumsy gratitude.

In the end, it had been Raoul who had come to her flat, worried because his calls were not being answered. She had told him everything in a sobbing, embarrassed confession and ended in near hysterics, apologizing for her cowardice, but she could not marry him yet, could he ever forgive her? It seemed as if she was always asking forgiveness from someone.

Raoul had held her, murmuring soothing words of understanding into her hair as she wept. And then he had taken one look at her cramped, dismal flat and insisted that she come to stay with him at the de Chagny estate.

"There's a lovely cottage behind the mansion that my mother built for the gardener. The previous resident has since departed and you are more than welcome to the house."

Frightened and still weary with grief, she had agreed and was now glad that she had accepted his offer. The former gardener's cottage was a spacious residence with an enormous comfortable bedroom and a family-sized sitting room. Sunlight poured in through immense windows offering views of the mansion and the surrounding meadows and woods. Wooden shelves were installed into the walls underneath the windows to hold all manner of flowering plants and the servants had enjoyed themselves choosing the prettiest blossoms to decorate the airy cottage. Christine often passed long days in the sitting room curled in an armchair, a novel upon her lap, surrounded by daisies, chrysanthemums, azaleas, and carnations. If she was quiet enough, she could almost hear them breathe. There were no red roses to be found.

During the weeks and months that she had passed in the bright sunlight, relaxing in the warm comfort of the cottage, she could not help remembering her time in another residence quite different from this…many levels below ground. No manner of darkness touched her idyllic sanctuary, and she found herself savoring this freedom from fear. The bags beneath her eyes disappeared, worn smooth by the warmth of sunlight. But there would be days when her eyes would still and her breath would quiet in her lungs. At those times images and sounds would appear before her, floating as if upon a deep sea. A ghostly chord, echoing across a rippling lake, a red rose, its thorns smooth and sharp, the cool touch of porcelain beneath her hand…

It was during times like these when Raoul, a frequent visitor to the cottage, would know to take his leave, kissing her chastely on the forehead, sadness in his eyes. It was during a time like this when the package arrived in the mail and the butler startled Christine out of her reverie.

She sat staring at the parcel tied with string long after the butler had taken his leave, wondering who it could possibly be from. Who knew that she was here? She picked up the attached note and turned it over.

_For the ball._

That was all it said.

Her head came up from its perusal at the burst of impatient knocking from the front door. Only one person sounded like that.

"Come in, Raoul," she said, an amused smile on her face.

He tripped into the sunlit sitting room, red-faced and winded, dressed for riding. He had not changed much in six months, his face remained boyish and well-tanned and his manner was all courteous concern.

"I have the most wonderful news, darling!" he said breathlessly and stopped when he saw the folded newspaper before her. "Oh! It seems that you already know."

Christine glanced at the newspaper for the first time

**OPERA GARNIER TO REOPEN**

Her eyes widened and she picked up the paper, reading the article enthusiastically. "Oh Raoul, it's in a week from now! Oh, this is wonderful…"

He grinned and, somewhat self-consciously, settled himself into the sofa beside her armchair. "I thought you might say that."

Christine continued to read. "They say that they have found a new manager, although they don't mention who…poor M Firmin."

"You haven't even gotten to the good part yet," Raoul said, picking up a paperweight from the table and playing with it.

Her eyes flew down the page and widened at the appropriate spot. "A masked ball to celebrate the opening? Oh!" She stopped, as she suddenly realized the meaning of the note. Which meant that the package must be…

"Yes, a masked ball," Raoul said, oblivious. "You've never been to one, have you? Well, it is one of the most outrageous and most amusing events you could possibly attend. Rather ridiculous overall, but an experience not to be missed. Why, what's that?" he said as he noticed the package for the first time.

"The note says it's for the ball," Christine said. She touched the paper wrapping and the object inside gave underneath the pressure of her hand. The contents felt springy and light. There was nothing for it. She pulled on the end of the string and the paper fell away. Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh…"

Raoul stared, dumbstruck. "What is…?" His hand reached out and drew back almost immediately. "I have seen many dresses but never…what is this material?"

Christine was still at a loss for words. The sunlight reflected off the shimmering fabric of the dress and dazzled her eyes, but she could not look away. It was white, that much she could tell, but a shade and brilliance of white that she had never seen before. She touched the fabric with a reverent hand. It felt like caressing the morning dew upon fresh grass.

"Who could this be from?" Raoul asked in a hushed voice.

There were only two people that Christine could think of with the money and the cause to send such a gift. She opted for the safer of the two.

"This is too much, too much…I shall have to return this to the Duchess."

Raoul furrowed his brow in confusion. "Cassandra?" His face brightened. "Oh, but that's simply wonderful! I had no idea that she was your acquaintance as well. She will be delighted."

"But—"

"Christine, she is our friend. It would be discourteous to reject her gift."

"But Raoul, you must have already purchased a dress."

"Oh no," he said quickly, and Christine was immediately sure that he had indeed.

"No, you shall wear this to the ball. That is, if you want to."

She nodded wordlessly.

"You will look stunning, Christine." He smiled wryly. "I do not think that I will be an adequate companion."

She laughed. "Oh Raoul, don't be such a fool. How could you doubt…you've been such a wonderful friend these past few months. I…I thank you."

"No thanks are needed, Christine. It was the least I could do." A beat. Christine blushed and looked down. Raoul cleared his throat. "Christine, there is…something else I came here to discuss with you. I'm not quite sure how to broach the topic, so I will just ask you: are you sure you want to return to the Opera to sing?"

"I—" Christine floundered, not quite sure what he meant. "Of course I do, Raoul. Why, is there something wrong?"

He frowned. "You seemed so nervous all the time you were there. As if there was something you feared. I just need to know: are you happy at the Opera?"

"Raoul…" She paused. "Yes, I am very happy. Singing is my life; it always has been."

He sighed and it seemed as if it were a sigh of resigned acceptance. He raised his head to look at her and smiled weakly. "As long as you are happy."

"Raoul, what is this all about?"

"There's no need to concern yourself."

"It's your family, isn't it? They can't stand the idea of a performer—"

"I said," Raoul stated more firmly, "that there was no need to concern yourself."

"Darling, they could disown you."

His jaw twitched underneath the skin. "They will do nothing of the sort," he said shortly. "And if they do, it will be their problem, not ours. They have no right to tell you how you should live. No one should have that right," he finished softly.

She recognized the look in his eyes. "If you're talking about him…"

"Of course I am, Christine. I'm concerned for you. How do you know that he won't abduct you the moment you reappear at the Opera?"

"Because…because, he just wouldn't." She faltered, struggling for a way to explain to him, to make him understand. She looked again at his innocent, anxious face and knew that he never would. Oh Raoul…she loved him with all her heart, but he would never understand.

Christine took his hand in hers. It was dry and trembling. "Trust me, Raoul. I will be perfectly safe returning to Paris."

He swallowed and lowered his head after a moment to kiss the back of her hand. "Very well," he said, but he didn't look too happy about it. They sat in silence for a few more moments. Then Raoul brightened, standing up and pulling her from the chair. "On your feet, darling. The mare I bought last week has real spirit and I cannot wait to see you ride her."

Laughing, Christine allowed herself to be pulled to her feet.

--------------------

The crowded ballroom was filled with music, laughter, and color that dipped and weaved across the floor in the form of costumed dancers. It seemed as if all classes of Paris had turned out for the event. Clarice walked through the crowd, observing the different colors of the masks and the glitter of jewels in the warm glow of the candelabras. To her left she saw a mermaid with shimmering scales hanging on the arm of a black minotaur.

She saw Hannibal standing in a corner, speaking with Andre, who was dressed as a skeleton. Both of them looked her way, and she saw Hannibal blink as he acknowledged her presence. Andre nodded once, curtly, before both men turned aside to ignore her completely.

Clarice scoffed under her breath but turned away with a heavier heart.

As she continued to make her way through the revelers, she smiled beneath her mask as dancer after dancer glanced up at her gleaming eyes and stepped slightly back. Her costume had taken the dressmaker the entire week to craft, and only by working late into the night every single day. She had been well compensated for her toil and careful dedication to the sketches that Clarice had given to her as guidelines.

Hannibal's reaction when she had donned the dress and elaborate mask for the ball had been to raise a single questioning eyebrow. She had stared back with a cool, blank expression. There was nothing particularly scandalous about the costume, except that it was a bit…different. As for Hannibal, he would not even have come to the ball if not for his position as a patron of the Opera. The other patrons would have frowned and looked suspiciously upon his absence.

However, he utterly refused to wear anything other than a dress suit and a plain black mask covering his entire face. In retaliation, Clarice had abandoned him at the Grand Staircase and sauntered off into the crowded ballroom where her identity became indistinguishable from the other dancers. The musicians struck up the waltz from Berlioz's _Symphonie Fantastique_ and Clarice felt the world start to swirl in a whirlpool of color. The sea of smiles around her rippled as dancers bowed and twirled across the floor with their partners.

She laughed in sheer joy and freedom and not a single head turned to regard her with curiosity or recognized the aristocrat beneath the costume. With her smile hidden beneath the black fabric of her mask, her eyes swept over the dance floor once more with a more scrutinizing gaze. She found it eventually – the center of the whirlpool, the lone, solitary figure undisturbed by the chaotic frenzy swirling about him – standing against a wall, a red wide-brimmed plumed hat pulled low over a grinning skull.

The plan had worked perfectly. Now…now, she must approach him. What to say to a ghost?

But Clarice had barely taken a step in the direction of the red phantasm when her eyes were dazzled by another sight. She turned, as did half of the ballroom, to regard this new wonder, descending the staircase in shimmering white.

The Phantom of the Opera pressed himself as closely against the wall as he could as the hems of dresses brushed against the crimson fabric of his costume. He forced his breathing to remain steady as he constantly reminded himself that no one could possibly recognize him as he was now.

Silently, he watched the masquerade unfold around him, an unreadable expression in his searching eyes. Aristocrats, bourgeoisie, and the braver members of the working class sharing the same dance floor with no signs of bitterness or contempt. The conglomerate swirl of colors and laughter had deftly erased class lines for the duration of the night. Soldiers shared a toast with tipsy coachmen, noblemen bowed at the feet of actresses, and clergymen boasted about their visits to brothels to their ignorant superiors; all citizens shielded from the consequences of their audacity by the paper faces of animals and other beings that had never before walked the face of the earth.

But there were some sins that even a masked face could not forgive. Even as Erik stood silently, attempting to melt into the wall, he did not fail to notice the clearly defined empty space around himself. Dancers that approached within five feet of him shied away as if they could sense the coldness that radiated from his still form. Even with his ugly face hidden from view, he was helpless to hide the ugliness of his soul. There was no sanctuary for this abomination.

Feeling as if he were emerging from a deep sleep, Erik pulled his mind away from such heavy thoughts and focused on his purpose at hand. It would not be long now.

Shifting his gaze to the middle of the floor, he saw a lady dressed in a magnificent black costume with scarves trailing from her body like black smoke. Erik wasn't even sure what it was until she lifted her arms. What he had mistaken for scarves were in fact wings with metallic black feathers covering the gauzy material. She turned her head slightly, and Erik could see the blue eye winking out from the eyeholes of the elaborate beaked mask and the patch of iridescent purple at the throat so dark it faded into the rest of the black plumage.

All around the nightbird, other dancers were stepping out of her path as she strode through their midst with a regal bearing. Erik could not place her. Carlotta, perhaps? Yet, the figure's seemed wrong, too elegant rather than arrogant.

He looked away, his eyes now roaming the crowds, searching for a figure in white, as his mind was plagued with doubt. His breath was still coming in nervous gasps when he felt the atmosphere of the ballroom change. The orchestra played on unawares but all around the dancers were stopping, their gaze fixated on the staircase at the back of the room.

Slowly, Erik shifted his gaze…

If light could be sewn into solid form, that might best describe the dress she was wearing. All around her, dancers were stepping out of her path, their masked faces frozen as always in their expressions of shock, fear, gaiety, or anxiety. But their movements were frozen as well, and their voices were silent as they beheld this apparition descended from the heavens.

Erik could only look upon her and feel the breath taken from his body. He saw the nervousness in her face as she made her way through the silent crowds and he tried not to see her companion, whose arm she clung to in anxiety. The dress flowed about her legs like gentle waves as she walked across the floor.

The first silk cloth was sent from China to Ancient Rome in the second century by horseback, a journey that took several years. Europe had been trying to replicate the marvelous fabric ever since with continuous failure. Silk was available in Paris, of course, from all the first-rate shops, but the finest pieces had been leached away over the years it took to travel from the Orient to Europe. Middlemen, thieves, and self-grubbing traders took it upon themselves to skim off the top of their precious cargo.

This, though…this dress was a souvenir from Persia, the first trading stop from the source. Erik had seen it at the market and, entranced by all things beautiful, had bought it without a second thought. The dress had lain folded neatly in the midst of his personal possessions and there it had remained, even when he was forced to flee for his life. He had not considered then that he would ever use it. He had retained it as a memory of one of the few beautiful things of that accursed country.

Now the rich white material was caressing its new owner like a lover, its whispering threads embracing flesh that Erik would never dare touch. The elliptical patterns set into the fabric curled about her like wisps of smoke. The warm light of candelabras bathed the creamy fabric in a heavenly glow.

Almost absently, he saw the nightbird approach her and begin to speak. He nearly frowned to see such darkness approaching his angel, like the moon's carcass moving to eclipse the sun, but stopped when he saw Christine's face light up. She smiled and dropped a polite curtsey before the dark figure. They began to speak animatedly as Raoul stood to the side, smiling politely.

Erik felt a surge of something remarkably like hatred rush through his body as he stared at the boy, the _Vicomte_ de Chagny, and looked back instead at Christine. The angels in heaven had never shone so brightly as she did. And her smiling face beneath the white eye mask and the glittering wire-frame wings attached to her dress completed a picture that would have caused God to shed tears of joy to behold.

He felt something inside of him shrink away.

"Christine Daaé, you look absolutely stunning tonight!"

"Thank you, madam," Christine replied, still breathless from her unexpected reception by the crowd. "Your choice of costume is spectacular as well. I would have never recognized you."

"That is the purpose, my dear," Clarice said with an unseen smile beneath her beaked mask. She saw the young woman looking pointedly at her. "The common starling, _Sturnus vulgaris_, is quite an ordinary bird," she said, answering her unspoken question. "They are beautiful to look at, though, with feathers blacker than night and piercing eyes. You may have seen them in your garden." She directed the last statement towards Raoul, who was still standing slightly back and beginning to look uncomfortable.

"Indeed," he said, relieved to be speaking at last, "although, I must say, none ever looked as lovely as you." With that, he stepped forward with a smile and raised her hand to his lips. "Madam Starling," he said as he kissed the back of her gloved hand.

Clarice laughed, feeling a prickling sensation on the back of her head as she did and knowing that Hannibal was watching. "You speak too boldly, Raoul. I doubt your fiancée would be pleased."

Some of the joviality left his face. "Actually, Cassandra…we're not engaged…_officially_ anymore."

"I'm sorry," Clarice said quickly, looking mortified. "I should not have mentioned it."

He shook his head ruefully. "Think nothing of it," he said in a tight voice, noticing how Christine was not smiling anymore.

Clarice cast about frantically for something to say. "It is made of silk, is it not? The dress?"

"Oh yes," Raoul, accepting the change of subject. "Although silk of a quality I have never the likes of in Europe. I would say that it had been shipped directly from the source, wouldn't you agree, Duchess?"

"Wouldn't I what? I—" Clarice saw Christine's suddenly stricken face. "—oh yes, I…well, I can't be giving away my trade secrets, can I, Raoul? Though, I am glad the dress was to your liking."

Christine looked up and the Duchess saw that there were tears in her eyes. "Mere words will never describe my thanks," she whispered almost absently. Clarice merely gave her a look of knowing suspicion.

He continued to watch her even after the ballroom had roused itself and was moving once more around him like oil against water. It was good that she did not still hate and fear him so much as to reject his gift. This would make things so much easier when she graced the stage once more, this time in _his_ opera. He almost didn't hear the voice when it spoke – cutting through his thoughts like a silver arrow in the dark.

"Monsieur."

Erik tore his eyes away from the white image of Christine and looked around for the source of the voice. He was confronted by a figure in shimmering black. Bird-bright ovals peered from within the eyeholes of the elaborate mask. She was extending a wing towards him like a holy offering and he saw that the wing ended in a slender black-gloved hand.

"May I have this dance?"

He looked at the extended hand as if it were a rattlesnake. Then his eyes traveled up the arm until they met the winking eyes behind the mask. He opened his mouth to say no, but felt himself giving a curt nod and extending a red-draped arm to clasp her hand.

He felt his mind swimming in a half-daze as the nightbird led him onto the dance floor. The orchestra struck up a mazurka, and he began to move across the floor, holding the dark figure as lightly as if she were a wisp of smoke. Because of his mask, he could look at her without her realizing it, and he did, searching deep within the bright blue eyes for the answers he was determined to find.

Her companion's fingers were long and skeletal, but they moved gracefully within hers, holding them lightly as she spun, her dress flowing about her legs.

"You are a fine dancer, monsieur," Clarice said.

No response.

"However, your costume seems rather morbid considering the occasion."

Her dance partner tilted his head to one side, the plume of his hat swaying with his movements and his unchanging mask grinning its toothy grin. They had danced their way into a more isolated part of the floor and few couples moved around them.

"I can see that you have no taste for pointless conversation, monsieur," she said. "Then perhaps this would be more to your interest." She pressed herself closer to him, moving her beaked mouth towards his ear, not missing how he pulled away at her advance. Her voice lowered to a whisper. "A year's worth of your salary has been spent replacing the chandelier that you so unkindly dropped. Therefore, I suggest that you show more restraint in your little tricks in the future, for the sake of both our livelihoods."

The amber eyes deep within the mask went wide and every single muscle in his body tensed. Clarice tightened her grip on his hand, not intending to let him disappear.

The Phantom spun them both around, the red and black cloth of their costumes swirling around them like flames in the night. And when they came back around, his eyes were calm once more.

"Yes, the chandelier was a nasty accident, wasn't it?" he sneered. "But it was very old and worn, very old indeed. It was only a matter of time until it fell." Muffled though it was by the mask and derisive in its tone, there was no mistaking the beauty of the voice. For a moment Clarice stared, mystified, before remembering her original purpose.

"I speak on behalf of the Opera's new management," she said. "We desire a truce, monsieur, and a moratorium on your monthly salary until we have adequate funds once more. You, of course, are welcome to name the terms you desire in return, within reason. What say you?"

The Phantom never missed a beat of the mazurka, even when he began to laugh softly. "I say that your words do not befit your position, madam." With a deft touch, he guided them away from a couple that had danced too close. "First, I do not know how you recognized me, but you know nothing about me. You are in no position to make demands upon a ghost, and the Opera Ghost does not take orders from anyone."

Clarice turned her face away as they danced past Andre and Hannibal, who were still deep in conversation. "Monsieur," she hissed, nearly forgetting to whisper. "I have told you that I do not desire war between us."

"Second," he continued, ignoring her, "Andre would sing soprano before he permitted a woman to act as his business partner."

"Ah," Clarice said, "You would be surprised how pliable Andre can be now that his partner is…deceased."

"Are you implying that I had something to do with Firmin's death as well?" the Phantom said, his tone deceptively calm.

"My words hold no more meaning than you give them credit for, M le Fantome," she said.

He stopped suddenly, two beats before the mazurka concluded, and Clarice stumbled against him. He pulled back, looking at her, a new expression in his eyes. A beat. His voice when he spoke again had lost all its mockery. "So be it…Duchesse de Londres."

Clarice laughed shortly, aware of other dancers parting and choosing new partners for the next dance. "I suppose that masks are no use against those accustomed to wearing them at all times," she said.

The Phantom let go of her abruptly. His head tilted to one side again as he regarded her with eyes filled suddenly with anger, then understanding, then undisguised curiosity. He continued to look at her for a moment. Then, with a curt nod, he turned to go.

"Monsieur," Clarice said to his retreating back. "What of your terms?"

He halted without turning back around, the beginnings of a smile forming behind the mask. "You will know soon enough," he said. And he disappeared into the colorful sea of costumed dancers.

Clarice stood for a minute as the dancers moved around her in another waltz. The orchestra had a limited repertoire, it seemed. She waited until a couple almost collided with her before moving off towards a particular corner.

As she glided across the floor, she replayed her encounter with the Phantom over and over in her mind. So far, she could not think of anything terribly wrong she had said and it seemed as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, though the true test surely lay ahead.

She found Hannibal again and looped her arm around his, beaming contently as Andre looked at them. If her husband was surprised, he did not show it. "What have you been up to, my darling?" He was speaking absently, his tone trained to perfection, playing the role of the concerned husband, and his mind was miles away.

Clarice answered in the same fashion. "Dancing, my dear," she said, a smile stitched upon her face on behalf of the patchwork of eyes that watched. "Dancing for the sake of us all," she finished, lowering her voice to a whisper.

She did not have long to wait.

There was a burst of red smoke accompanied by sounds not unlike fireworks. Activity in the ballroom ceased as all eyes turned to look to the top of the staircase. The smoke seemed to solidify, and a figure emerged in crimson robes, grinning at the spectators with his death's head.

Time passed, maybe a second, maybe several minutes before the figure moved and the entire room took a breath.

Christine shrank back, resembling a ghost in her white dress that paled with her fear when it had previously shone so brightly. But the grinning skeleton in red passed by her without a second glance.

Andre turned as white as the bones of his costume as the Phantom's gaze came to rest on him. He looked quickly, desperately in Clarice's direction and looked away when he saw the blank look on her face. He whimpered softly as the Phantom stopped before him.

"Why so silent, good monsieur?" The roomful of listeners leaned closer to the haunting voice even as they shivered. "Did you think that I had left you for good? Did you miss me?"

To all eyes, the Phantom was speaking solely to a quivering, white-faced Gilles Andre. A manuscript bound in leather could be seen tucked under one arm with _Don Juan Triumphant_ imprinted across the cover in an untidy, angry scrawl.

"I hear that business has been poor these past few months and for that I apologize. But you will find the Opera Ghost quite willing to compromise when dealing with a reasonable person. A quality that, I am afraid to say, you lack utterly."

He took another step in Andre's direction and then, turning at the last moment, he thrust the score into Clarice's hands. The touch was electric and she felt her fingers curling protectively around the leather cover of the manuscript in response.

_Well, that blew my cover rather effectively_.

She raised a glaring gaze to the Phantom only to find him matching her glare for glare, his unchanging skeletal face angled to one side as if in humor. She could feel his smile, his sideways, sardonic smile beneath the mask.

"I have written you an opera!" the Phantom said in a booming voice that could be heard throughout the entire room before his tone changed to a sibilant hiss. "I trust that my instructions will be quite clear."

Clarice felt herself swell with outrage, and yet her indignation was overshadowed by something resembling thrill. She fixed her eyes upon those of the Phantom. A look passed between them and she nodded, slightly, so that only he could see. She would play this game.

He removed his great plumed hat and bowed spectacularly, it was a grand sweeping gesture. Setting the hat back atop his ever-grinning facemask, he turned to go.

"Get him!" Andre roared, regaining his senses at last.

A minotaur and a bullfrog leaped forward to comply before a great cloud of fiery smoke surrounded the skeleton in red and drove them back. Clarice coughed from the smoke, knowing before it cleared that he was long gone. _Always dramatic, this one_, she thought, smiling.

It was time to take her leave as well. Already, heads were turning to regard and whisper about the mysterious lady in black who had been the focus of the Phantom's attention. Eyes wandered to the bound score in her hands and people were edging away from her, as if she were holding a bowl of the Lord's wrath on Judgment Day.

Out of the corner of her eye, Clarice saw Christine pull away from Raoul, who made an ineffectual attempt to grab her hand as she ran up the staircase and out the door.

---------------

A/N: H/C, R/C, E/C, oh my, will any of them work out? And to which "C" am I referring to in each case? Oh the possibilities…*evil grin* For your (semi) peace of mind, I will say that I am no fan of OW stories, no matter how much I may like the particular other woman. However, this does not mean that I am beyond toying with your minds. *evil grin #2*

Another bit of info: The mazurka was a courtly dance imported from Poland during the Romantic Era. It was traditional for women to choose their partners for this dance.


	10. Fallen Angels

A/N: Many hugs once again to reviewers who make my world go round. I agonized over this chapter for weeks. It's one of those transition chapters, important but slow...this one takes place as I prepare to unleash hell for _Don Juan Triumphant_. Hopefully it'll still be as exciting as the next few are going to be. There's some E/C semi-fluff, Carlotta insults the wrong person, and Raoul has fireballs thrown at him. What's not to like? ;) 

The beginning of Chapter 6 has been completely rewritten. The original form was way ambiguous and was terrible transition from the previous chapter. Hopefully the new version works better. 

And even more big news, I'm going to see the play on Broadway on Valentine's Day!! Finally!! That's in less than three days!! I've got 7th row orchestra seats to the sold out matinee. I'm so excited I can barely think. :-DDD I will definitely tell more after I get back...hopefully through a fast update of the next chapter. But for now...enjoy! 

**Chapter 10 **

Fallen Angels 

Barely after Clarice Starling had finished dancing for the life of the Opera House, Christine was racing through the empty hallways outside the ballroom. The noise of the orchestra and dancers faded into the background. She did not know her destination - merely that she must run until she found him. 

The memories of the lively ballroom, the laughter, the bright sunlight peering through the windows of an airy cottage were disappearing. In this place, this place that was his realm there was nothing but the here and now. And having seen him again, she felt she would go mad unless she found some answers to the questions burning in her mind. 

He had sent the dress but then had barely looked at her. Did he despise her still? And how did the Duchess know him? Her small feet sounded unnaturally loud in the empty corridors. 

_"Christine..." _

The voice sang effortlessly through the walls and settled in her ear, beckoning her attention. She stopped, finding herself before the door to her dressing room. Taking a deep breath, she placed a hand on the knob and pushed the door open, feeling a bit silly about entering her own dressing room with such anxiety. 

The lamps were already lit, the oil turned as low as possible, bathing the tiny room in a faint glow. The mirror on her wall was dark. Reaching out, she turned up the flames in the lamps and a resulting golden gleam appeared in the mirror. 

Taking a deep breath, she stood before the glass, seeing her pale, ghostlike reflection. "Master...?" she said. Her voice sounded steady to her ears. 

A great sigh filled the room and the lamps seemed to flicker. 

_"You look absolutely lovely tonight, my dear." _

Her eyes were so very wide and he fancied that he could see himself in them, a lurking shadow behind the silver of the mirror reflected in her irises. She was an angel in white, trembling and frail in unfamiliar dress and unfamiliar glory. He smiled, tracing her outline in the air with his hand. 

"The wings were an especially nice touch."

He saw her take a breath and the white wings shimmered as her body trembled. "Thank you," she murmured nervously. "You're...you're not mad then?" 

Erik sighed. She must feel it, too. He fancied that the coldness must radiate even through the silvered glass of the mirror. He made a half-hearted attempt to muffle it, swirling his cloak around his front, the fabric moving like a whisper of a bird's wing. He saw Christine strain to hear the sound, but she did not approach any closer. 

"No," he said at last. "No, Christine, I could never stay mad at you." 

"I was, I was afraid then...the chandelier, I heard your voice as it fell. I was so afraid that I had done something terribly wrong that you should be so angry." 

Erik touched the back of the mirror with his hand, feeling the cold smoothness of the glass beneath his fingers. "No, not you, Christine. Not then." 

"Not then? I don't-" She paled in understanding. "You saw us, didn't you? On the rooftop afterwards?" 

Deafening silence was her only answer. 

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, angel. I...I don't know what I was thinking. I forgot my music and what you had done for me, I forgot everything, I was so scared...but I broke it! I broke the engagement." She paused, straining to hear a response that was not forthcoming. "Master...please, won't you answer me?" 

"It matters not that you broke the engagement," Erik said, the coldness returning to his voice, even as his mind was screaming in contradiction. "It matters that you even considered such a thing. That you would sacrifice your music for a...a bauble on your finger and a noble name." _And a handsome face_. He did not speak the thought, but suddenly his mask seemed unnaturally heavy. 

"Will you not even speak his name?" Christine said, tears beginning to form behind her eyes. "Raoul has been my friend since childhood. I was frightened, I..." All strength abandoned her then and she collapsed upon the divan before the mirror, sobbing. "I'm so sorry, angel, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me..." 

His hand shook where it pressed against the mirror as he saw Christine fall over the armrest of the divan. He watched his angel in white weeping, shedding sparkling tears...for him! For want of his forgiveness. She was begging _his_ forgiveness, the forgiveness of a cold and twisted man that she continued to think of as her angel. He would have laughed if he had been confident it would not have emerged as a sob. He lifted his fingers from the back of the mirror. They left no imprint in their absence, as if the flesh that had touched it had possessed none of the warmth of the living. 

_"Christine..."_

The voice was gentle, forgiving, and she looked up, blinking back tears. 

_"I set out to make your song take wing, and to that promise I hold. I will do anything for you, Christine, anything. I would never hurt you..."_ No more than he had already. _"You...do not belong in their world, my dear."_

"I...I don't understand." 

He allowed himself a sad smile at her innocence. _"The aristocracy does not look kindly upon actresses. They would destroy you."_

Her mouth fell open in shocked disbelief. Something tugged sharply on the back of her mind. The memory of the rooftop kiss she and Raoul had shared was fading, obscured by the hypnotic voice emanating from behind the mirror. But she could not reconcile the smiling, dripping-wet boy holding her scarf with the image that her teacher presented now. She reached, groping desperately for a firm grasp upon the memory. 

She swallowed and spoke in an indignant voice. "Raoul doesn't care, he's not like the rest-" 

_"Your Vicomte may not mind, but everyone else will. Do not be so naïve as to think that he could shield you from their scornful eyes."_

She hesitated before speaking again. "Cassandra's not like the rest of them either." 

Erik sensed the anticipation behind her statement. This was no thoughtless remark. "The Duchess...has her own problems at the moment." 

He saw the tension within her dissipate, to be replaced by disappointed curiosity. Christine was not the only curious one. Time and time again, Erik replayed what had passed between the Duchess and himself as they had danced. The Red Death and the nightbird: what a macabre pair they had made! She had spoken the same words he had heard so many years ago from another mouth, and he had felt as if his head would spin off his shoulders. Dr. Fell was in Paris once more, and with a wife! He wondered if his wife knew of his past. 

Some things were better left unknown. 

Erik stared through the mirror at his angel, feeling as if a great chasm rather than a simple pane of glass lay between them. He should have never risked opening his soul to her, never desired more than to admire her from the safety of darkness, never desired her touch like a normal man... 

What he could not undo, he would help her forget. Making his voice as tender and hypnotic as possible, he spoke once again through the mirror. 

"You will fly, _mon ange_ . You will soar beyond the highest heavens," he whispered, and already he could see the familiar expression of enchanted wonder creeping across her face. He projected his voice to her ear, caressing her mind with his gentle words. "I will help you, Christine, I have always helped you. Trust me..." 

As his final words reverberated into silence, he began to sing softly, a wordless lullaby, and watched as Christine's eyes glazed over. 

She could not describe what was happening to her. When once she had been afraid, she now felt at ease although she couldn't say exactly why. Nothing had changed, but the softness of the divan had never felt so enveloping and her eyelids never so heavy. She lay down slowly upon her stomach, taking care not to damage the wings of her costume. She closed her eyes as her Angel's voice wove a magical tapestry about her with an exotic, soothing melody that sapped the strength from her body and yet made her heart beat erratically. 

Christine did not feel the breath of frigid air as the mirror swung upon its pivot or the hand that brushed a stray curl from her face with a light touch. 

"Return to your Angel..."

Lost in the velvet darkness of sleep, Christine strained towards the voice and suddenly she saw herself soaring effortlessly through the heavens. It was beautiful here, the sun was rising high above the land her father had woven with his stories. 

There was an ice-cold touch upon her back; she could feel it even through the fabric of her dress and the vision faltered. Ragged edges of darkness crept into her mind, bringing with it the image of a ghastly visage. How could she forget such a thing...? 

But the hands were moving now, lifting the wire-frame wings from her dress and drawing a blanket over her body before moving away. Christine felt herself falling back into the warmth of sleep, and she couldn't remember what she had just been thinking. 

With an effort, she opened her eyes; muted blue slivers embedded in pale skin saw the wings resting atop the chair next to the divan, neatly folded and serene. Her eyes fell closed and the last thing she remembered before drifting into a dreamless sleep was the image of those wings, the sequins sparkling like fairy dust staining the backs of her eyelids. 

-------------- 

By the next afternoon, circumstances had not improved for the co-managers of the Opera Populaire. 

"I don't like this." 

"It is not a matter of liking, Gilles. The Opera needs something to open its new season. The Phantom delivered - in grand fashion that the future audience will not quickly forget." 

"But, look at this!" Andre gestured wildly to the red-streaked pages of the manuscript that lay open upon his desk. "This is ludicrous! Have you even _seen_ the score? Here!" He jabbed fiercely at a particularly angry-looking jumble of notes. "What composer in his right mind throws four keys together in a single chord? The orchestra will have a fit!" 

"I am not well-versed in music," Clarice said, picking a note off her desk. "But it seems to me as if this composer would be unlikely to follow rules of any sort." She unfolded the single-page note and began to read, her eyes widening as she did. "And the orchestra will have a lot more to worry about than difficult music." 

She handed the note to Andre, who snatched it from her hand before reading it. His face grew darker with every line and when he finished, he was fuming. "No, this is the final straw! The Opera Ghost will _not_ have say over the members of the orchestra. The third trombone has been with us for over twenty years." 

"Then perhaps the years have dulled his ear." 

Andre whirled upon her. "What?" he said disbelievingly. "You can't be serious. You're agreeing with him?" 

"Don't you understand, Gilles, we have no choice! You have seen what the Phantom can do, or have you forgotten the chandelier already?" 

A muscle in Andre's jaw twitched. "Insults are unnecessary, madam." 

"I wish only to make you see sense. This piece," Clarice passed her hand over the manuscript, "This...is written by the _Phantom of the Opera_ himself. What denizen of Paris would pass up the opportunity to hear it? Do you realize how good this will be for us? How profitable?" 

Only after her last sentence did something in Andre's face change as he realized, suddenly, the sort of windfall that had landed in his hands. "Of course," he whispered, reverently, inspired by the only god he worshipped, "The receipts from the pre-sales are sure to be...legendary. Yes, yes...I will write to the orchestra director right away." He sat down and began scribbling furiously. 

Clarice knew better than to expect any sort of thanks. She turned away instead, a sly smile tugging on the edges of her lips, and picked up another note from her desk. She dropped it when the door suddenly swung open, banging against the wall with a shuddering crash. She looked up to see a witch framed in the entrance. 

The Spanish diva that stood in the doorway was drawn up to her full height, trembling from barely suppressed rage, and looked for all intents and purposes like an old crone itching to slaughter a lamb for her brew. A few strands of red hair fell in front of her face as she brandished a note in her hands. Clarice was struck with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. 

"This is an outrage!" Carlotta shrieked in a tone that could have peeled paint from the walls. The infuriated redhead stormed towards the man she believed was in charge. On her way she spied the Phantom's score resting atop the desk and her eyes bulged. "Have you seen the size of my part??" she seethed, shaking the note in Andre's face, who held his hands out before his face in a gesture of supplication. "Please, please..." he said. Clarice saw him send a pleading look her way. She shrugged. 

Where Carlotta had previously stood in the doorway, Clarice could now see a hefty man with a thick beard and mustache and a ham-sized fist curled wrathfully around a similar note. She could not quite place him. And then he opened his mouth and spoke. "It's an insult to the both of us!" Ah - with a voice like that - he must have been the man she had seen on her very first day at the Opera, the man playing the general Hannibal. She watched the man walk past her to stand by Carlotta, placing a protective hand on her shoulder. 

Clarice glanced from the man to Carlotta and back to the man. She resisted the urge to gag from the thought. 

The man waved his cast list under Andre's nose with similar fury. "Have you seen what we are meant to sing? What utter rubbish!" he finished, jabbing his finger at the score. 

"And that Christine Daae," Carlotta hissed. "She has something to do with this, I know it. How else she could have gotten the main role, I do not know." The diva's eyes flashed with anger before alighting upon the open score once again, and her upper lip curled in disgust. "Let's just get rid of this and be done with it," she snapped, reaching purposefully toward the leather-bound pages. 

Quick as lightning, Clarice snatched the score from the desk and snapped it shut, tucking it protectively under her arm. "_You_," she said in a tightly controlled voice, "will kindly keep your hands off what does not belong to you." 

Carlotta began to swell like a bloated hen. The burly man squeezed her shoulder while shooting Clarice a venomous glare. She couldn't have cared less. Her fingers wrapped around the smooth edges of _Don Juan Triumphant_ and held it close as if it were her child. She knew then that she would do whatever it took to protect it. Dammit, she had made a promise, and with her ridiculous, inviolate sense of honor, she would hold herself to it. 

Nor was she alone in her determination. Andre, with the glitter of gold in his eyes, stepped forward with uncommon resolve. "I am afraid," he said, "that in this instance, I will have to agree. I am sorry that this is not the sort of role you are used to, Carlotta. Or you, Piangi. But, right now, it is best for the Opera if we do what the Phantom demands." 

"You can't be serious!" Piangi gasped. 

"This is an outrage!" Carlotta fumed, unable to think of anything else to say. She pointed a finger at Clarice without looking at her. "And who is she?" 

They were spared from answering as Raoul staggered into the room, one arm supporting Christine. The young singer was wearing her dress from the night before and a glazed expression in her eyes, as if she were just waking from a deep sleep. Raoul's eyes were pained and the cuffs and front of his white shirt were covered with scorch marks. 

"This has gone on long enough!" he shouted to no one in particular. 

"What are you talking about, monsieur?" Andre asked, his head beginning to spin from all the shouting. 

"The Phantom-" 

"Her!" Carlotta's contemptuous gaze had seen only Christine, and she pointed a trembling finger in her direction. "She's the one behind this! Christine Daae!" 

All color drained from Christine's face and her empty eyes filled with anger. White with indignation, she opened her mouth, intent on speaking her mind at last, consequences be damned. Someone else spoke it for her. 

"You evil _bitch_. How dare you??" 

There was a stunned silence that lasted a lifetime. 

Carlotta whirled upon her, wisps of hair escaping from her bun. "And just _who_ do you think you are, _madam_? Do you know who you are talking to?" Andre, face as white as Christine's, made wild, emphatic gestures. 

"I..." Clarice said, with a smile like a lioness cornering her prey, "am your new manager." 

She saw the diva's lips tighten a fraction of an inch before she turned to Andre. "What is she saying? Monsieur..." her voice faltered at the look on his face. "Monsieur, surely this is a joke?" she finished in a whisper. Andre sighed helplessly. 

The silence in the room was more agonizing than the first. Carlotta turned ever so slowly and her shoulders dropped. Clarice watched without emotion as she squirmed like a worm on a hook. Yet as the painful shock and anguish seized the elegant, powdered face, something inside of her gave a little. "Madame Carlotta," she said slowly. The woman's eyes shifted frantically in fear. "I...apologize for my harsh language." She paused. "You will do the same." 

Carlotta looked at her disbelievingly and then seemed to come to her senses. She turned to face Christine. "Mademoiselle Daae, I did not mean to...accuse you." She closed her eyes as if she were in pain. "I - I apologize." 

Dazed, Christine nodded. She glanced over at the Duchess in awe, but Clarice did not look at her. Her eyes were troubled. 

The significance of the moment did not escape Piangi's notice. The burly man took his hand off of Carlotta's slumped shoulder and looked at Clarice warily. Andre fidgeted with his pen. Raoul let go of Christine, who swayed on her feet but did not fall, and pushed past all of them to point at the leather-bound manuscript in Clarice's hands. 

"Is that it?" he asked in a harsh voice. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "We cannot perform this. The composer is completely insane..." 

Clarice's eyes swept over the burn marks on his shirt cuffs. "Raoul, what happened?" 

He looked over at Christine. She was rocking back and force on her heels, wringing her hands nervously. "Last night...I could not find her after the ball. I searched for an hour before your husband informed me that she had gone home. Naturally, I believed him and returned to my own residence only to discover the next day that Christine had never left the Opera. I found her in her dressing room just a few minutes ago. She was standing before the mirror and it seemed as if someone _behind_ it were singing to her. It sounded like some form of vocal exercise. Christine saw me in the mirror when I walked in and she looked so _frightened_. 

"Before I could even move, the entire mirror swung open and I saw a figure all in black standing behind it. He was wearing a white mask over half of his face...then he spoke. 'You!' he said, and his voice was filled with hatred and that was when I knew it was him." Raoul shuddered and lifted his hands and Clarice saw that the skin of his palms was red and swollen. 

"He lifted his hand and an enormous ball of fire flew at me. I was burned rather badly before I threw it off onto the ground. Christine screamed...he disappeared. The coward ran away before I could follow him. I couldn't open the mirror. He's...he's done something to her. I know it! Look at her, she's hardly the same anymore. We have to end this, we have free her..." 

He trailed off significantly and looked down, seemed to ponder something. When he lifted his head again, Clarice could see the light of madness kindling in his eyes. He made a sudden movement towards her and the score in her hands. 

"I've got it!" he exclaimed. "This opera, the Phantom wrote it, right? And he wants Christine to sing the lead. And if she does, he is _certain_ to attend. We'll lock the doors and place armed men at every entrance. We'll surely catch him then!" He paused for air after his speech, looking around triumphantly as he saw heads nodding signs of approval. Save one. 

"Raoul," Clarice said at last. "Forgive me, but...that is the stupidest idea I have ever heard." 

The young vicomte flushed red and looked around to her with an expression of stunned bewilderment. The silence this time was longer as Clarice mentally berated herself for the second time that night. 

"Think of it," she explained calmly, realizing that there was no taking back her words. "The Phantom wrote this opera. Do you not think that he would be sure to know everything about our plans for it?" 

"Well," Raoul said, with an expression like that of a sulking child, "unless you are on his side, I see no way that he would find out." 

"Oh Raoul, don't be such a fool," Clarice muttered. And at the word 'fool' she placed her hand against the hollow wall of the office. "There are other ways." 

"Yes, there are," he said, his tone accusing. "I saw who you danced with last night. How long have you known the monster?" 

Out of the corner of her eye, Clarice saw Christine wince. "That," she said coldly, "is none of your concern. M Andre will vouch for me that I have the Opera's best interests at heart." 

"You have no idea how dangerous he is," Raoul said. 

Clarice looked at his scorched shirtfront. The boy must have rushed headlong at the mirror, intent on battling the Phantom directly. "No," she said, "I think it is you who has no idea. A few seconds ago, you couldn't bear to think of performing this opera and now not only do you want us to perform it but you're using Mlle Daae as _bait_?" She was goading him deliberately, and she saw that he was responding. Good, make him angry, make him realize his foolishness... 

"Raoul." All heads turned as the quiet voice of Christine Daae spoke at last. "Don't make me do this. Please. I'm...I'm frightened." 

Glaring briefly at Clarice, the young man crossed the room to clasp her hands in his, murmuring soothing words of comfort. "Christine...if we do this, it will all be over. You said yourself that he was nothing but a man. He can't possibly escape us this time." 

"How-how can I betray my teacher? How can I...I have no choice, I know. He has killed, he is a danger to everyone, but Raoul, I'm so scared." 

He rubbed her hands vigorously with his own, as if he hoped to drive away the chill of the monster with his warmth. "Shh...we'll keep you safe. You will never have to be afraid again." 

Christine put her arms around him and nodded her head from where it was buried in his shirtfront. A single tear coursed down her cheek. Raoul could not see it. 

"I will phone the fire department at once," Andre said. 

"And tell the Sûreté to send their best marksman," Raoul said, his arms still around Christine. Carlotta and Piangi silently slipped out of the room satisfied that their complaints were being addressed at last. Raoul looked into Clarice's stubborn, disbelieving face. "You're either with us or against us, Cassandra," he said, and she could see the mad determination in his eyes. 

Clarice looked from person to person. "Gilles?" she queried. 

The man shrugged and she could almost feel him tipping underneath the weight of the majority. "This foolishness has gone on long enough," he said. 

She looked over at Raoul and Christine, locked in an embrace, her head pressed against his chest. She watched Christine close her eyes, shutting out the world. Something rose in Clarice's throat, tasting of rust and ashes, and she recognized it as disgust. Her hand moved over the hollow wall, resting against the wood and molding for a significant moment before she drew away. The opera would be performed. 

"Very well," she said. 

She placed the score flat upon her desk, heard the muffled sound of leather against wood. Something twisted inside her stomach and she felt as if she were placing the lid atop a coffin. 

----------- 

Dun dun dun...the semi-calm before the storm. If you haven't guessed by now, this story is going to be _long_. I think we passed the halfway point a chapter or two ago. As if I would leave things the way ALW did! Things in the next chapter: the premiere of Don Juan, Clarice does some more suspicious things, the first of two showdowns, and explaining Christine's manic-depressiveness. 


	11. Twisted Every Way: Counterpoint I

A/N: A long author's note follows. Feel free to skip, but I felt I needed to clear up some things about this story. 

First of all, a thousand apologies for the delay. This chapter took me *forever* to write and is *still* not finished. Eventually it got so long that I was forced to split it into two parts. But this means that the next part will come much more quickly. I'm starting to understand how "Final lair" took the movie producers a week to film. And the name is a bit of a lie since this story is far from over. :D 

And yet another reason for the delay is…*clears throat* I have seen the musical at last!!! Yes, the Valentine's Day excursion was a success, and oh my…words simply fail to describe the beauty of what I saw. If you follow the link from my author profile, you can read about my encounter with Hugh Panaro and the backstage tour. 

I'm also glad that all of you like Clarice, she is my second favorite character next to Erik. For this chapter, Clarice's POV is in normal font, Christine's and Erik's are in italics. 

Individual comments: 

Midasgirl: Everything (or at least enough of it) Clarice/Hannibal related will be explained in, oh, about three chapters. 

Cyranothe2nd: Ahhh, I've missed you, how have you been?? In response to your comments. 1) "Flashbulbs were invented in 1928," Eep, thanks for noticing that! 2) You're right, psychiatry wasn't officially recognized as a science, and I've made minor adjustments in Lecter's dialogue to fit that. However, he always has been _unconventional _, and time travel isn't going to change that. Yes, the story does take place in 1881. Lecter met Erik in the summertimes from 1864 till 1866 when he was captured. During that time he was practicing medicine in the US but taking summer vacations in his home in Florence and visiting Paris extensively. 3) Clarice and the FBI…ahhhh…all shall be explained later. 4) Glad you liked the fight! It was definitely one of the hardest chapters to write. Clarice and a certain phantomy lair dweller? I'm sure I don't know what you could be implying…*whistles*

Lastly, I *hate* ff.net's formatting! Can anyone tell me the html coding needed to have two lines between paragraph's rather than one? Coding that ff.net will actually accept?

**Chapter 11 **

**Twisted Every Way: Counterpoint I **

_Fear is the mind-killer_.

--Frank Herbert 

The sky on the day of the premiere of _Don Juan Triumphant _ was filled with clusters of fluffy white clouds piled ever higher upon themselves. Their foundations were flat and dark, as if they had been neatly cleaved away from the tops of larger cloud formations and even now, the innocuous bodies of vapor appeared ready to dump their unforgiving coldness upon the world below. 

Opening night of the Phantom's opera had sold out on the first day of rehearsal, when the official announcement had been made. A sea of carriages and prancing horses pressed against the lighted façade of the Opera House. Valets scrambled around frantically opening doors to disgorge the jeweled occupants. 

Inside the horseshoe-shaped theater, the atmosphere was one of muted frenzy. The sound of the crowds waiting in the foyer for the doors to be opened could be heard through the gilded walls as stagehands and orchestra members rushed about making last minute preparations and snatching a bite to eat before the evening's performance. 

In a corner of the orchestra pit, a different sort of performance was being prepared. Raoul could be seen speaking in low tones to a sallow-skinned man dressed in dark clothes holding a long-barreled black pistol. 

Alone as always, Clarice made her way down the red-carpeted aisle to the edge of the pit. As she approached she caught several phrases of what Raoul was saying. 

"Only if you have to…but shoot. To kill." 

"How will I know, monsieur?" the sallow-skinned man was asking, polishing the grip of his pistol as he spoke. 

"You'll know," Raoul said shortly. 

Clarice had reached them and leaned against the side of the pit. "You have everything ready then, Raoul?" 

The young man turned to face her, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "Yes, for my part. I trust you have done the same?" 

Clarice laughed shortly. "Have no fear for the opera, Raoul. There has never been a performance so well rehearsed. You could almost say that cast and crew were…possessed." She smiled grimly. "Is there nothing I could say that would dissuade you from this foolishness?" 

Raoul glared at her. "I will free her," he said resolutely 

Clarice looked at his hard-set jaw and determined eyes and was reminded of herself nearly ten years ago. She knew that her younger self would have resented any advice she might have attempted to give from her current position. Still, that did not keep her from wishing that things had been different.

_From within the hollow column of box 5, Erik observed the preparations being made for his capture. He might have laughed if he had not been seething with fury. Standing barely a foot away from him in the box entrance was the chief of firemen, his chest puffed out pompously to draw attention away from his shifting, nervous eyes. Erik toyed with the idea of giving him something to be truly nervous about but was distracted when he saw the Vicomte de Chagny lift a hand from the orchestra pit and shout an order. The chief saluted importantly. _

_"Secure the doors!"_

_That **boy **—he thought furiously as doors slammed all around the main theater—That hypocrite! That infuriating boy had been hanging upon Christine's arm ever since the first rehearsal, determined that no harm would come to her. And yet he had no qualms about using her as bait in this little scheme to capture him. He put her safety aside in order to take his own personal revenge. Did the vicomte place so much value on his shirt cuffs? _

_Killing him wouldn't be as difficult as he thought, no, not difficult at all…_

_Why had he not listened to the Duchess? The Duchess…Cassandra Fell…the woman who was proving to possess as many faces as the man she called husband. His gaze was drawn to her as she leaned over the edge of the pit to speak to the armed man._

"Cassandra, this is monsieur Malfois, the Sûreté's best marksman." 

Clarice looked at him. The man had hooded eyelids and a shifty gaze. His lanky fingers, however, held the pistol calmly and assuredly as if it were an extension of his own body. 

"Monsieur," Clarice said, inclining her head with minimal courtesy. 

Malfois must have seen the hostility in her gaze because he nodded brusquely and then proceeded to ignore her, turning instead to polish and adjust his weapon. 

Clarice saw her chance. She placed a hand on Raoul's arm and led him several feet away, out of earshot. 

He was visibly irritated. "What is it, Cassandra? I'm busy right now." 

"I examined Christine's dressing room." 

"Yes?" Raoul said impatiently. 

"And I found no sign of any damage from the fire. Not even to the carpet. In fact, your account is the only evidence we have that the Phantom ever attacked you." 

His jaw twitched in annoyance. "What are you trying to imply, madam? It is not my job to know how that monster works his devilry. I saw it; it burned me." 

_So will this, Raoul _. "I want to be sure that you are doing this for the correct reasons." She saw his confused expression. "Revenge is a dangerous game. You should be sure that, should things go ill, you will not regret your decision." 

She saw the shifting emotions in his face. The initial annoyance that she should doubt his brilliant plan. Then the fear, followed by resentment. He turned away without answering her. 

It was his pride that had begun the war, and, in the end, it was his pride that made him powerless to stop it. 

Clarice felt the nails bite into the rough wood of the coffin lid.

_Both of them had betrayed him in the end. _

_Christine…ah, he had watched her the entire night. Watched the rise and fall of her bosom through the liquid silver of the silken dress draped about her form. She had looked like a naiad, blissfully asleep atop the sparkling surface of her aquatic home. He had returned to stand behind the mirror, his limbs unaware of fatigue and the passing hours, content to watch her from a distance. _

_And when she had awakened, blinking the fairy dust of sleep from her eyes, how she had smiled when his voice had floated through the mirror again! His voice, tender and hypnotic as always, oblivious to the hours its owner had spent inside a damp underground tunnel. How her voice had soared as they began the lessons they had long ago abandoned: memories of a time when he had been the Angel of the Music and she his devoted pupil, before he had succumbed to his weakness and shattered her dreams in the darkness of the fifth cellar. Perhaps they were being given a second chance… _

_Then how the horror had seized her face when the boy had burst into the room. How she had clung to her knight in shining armor for safety even as her savior advanced towards the mirror, shouting heated words of vengeance. And the fire had leapt from his fingertips and maniacal laughter driven both of them from the room, leaving him alone with his grief. _

_Erik flexed the fingers of his right hand, resisting the urge to drive it into the wall in front of him. Christine was nowhere to be seen, so instead, he fixed his gaze upon the Duchess. She was dressed in her normal understated finery, bright eyes sweeping the theater, searching for him. _

_How she had fooled him, too. All her talk of peace and compromise had been merely stalling for time. He felt an emotion like regret rising within him and he drowned it under a rising tide of madness. _

_Both had betrayed him…how different they were yet how united in their hatred of him – the angel and the nightbird. Perhaps he had not been the only reveler at the masquerade ball who had gone as himself. _

_Death was returning to the Opera. He felt the madness overtaking him and he succumbed completely to its blissful numbness. Taking a deep breath, he prepared for his greatest performance. _

"Monsieur." 

Malfois looked up from his weapon, surprised to see Clarice standing before him. She held out her hand. "May I check your weapon? We don't want any accidents, after all." 

"Madam, I assure you I am quite capable—" He trailed off at the look in her eyes. "If it will please you," he said, handing her the weapon with a shrug, glancing at Raoul and seeing the similar look of bewilderment. 

Clarice hefted the pistol in her hands, testing its weight. "This is a fine weapon, monsieur. A Colt Lightning if I'm not mistaken, '77 model?" 

"Yes." Malfois hid his surprise by narrowing his eyes in suspicion. 

"Not usually the sort of weapon a policeman would use. This was the favored weapon of outlaws in the American frontier." She smiled disarmingly as she pointed the barrel at a random point in the air, holding the weapon firmly with both hands. "That is not to say that this is any less worthy. Its aim is true." Lowering the pistol, she opened the cylinder and spun it once, watching the golden casings of the bullets sparkle. 

"Madam…if I may…" Malfois held his hand out. 

Clarice smiled. "Of course." She snapped the cylinder shut and returned the weapon, grip-first. "My husband was a businessman in the ammunitions industry before becoming a doctor, monsieur," she said in reaction to Raoul's stunned face. 

They were distracted when an almighty shout arose from the center of the pit. 

"No, no, no!" The conductor dug his fingers into his hair and shook his head furiously. "For the last time, just play what is written! I don't care if you think it sounds ridiculous, just do it!" The young man threw his baton down upon his stand in frustration. "Lord, let this be the last piece of this kind I will have to conduct," he muttered. 

Andre emerged onto the stage from the wings. "Monsieur Monteux, we simply _must _ open the house within the next half hour. Is the orchestra ready?" 

"Yes monsieur," the conductor sighed. "Although I doubt anyone would be able to tell the difference," he finished in a mutter. He turned his head and saw Raoul. "You!" He pointed his baton at the vicomte like a rapier. "Finish what you are doing. The show must begin." 

_"Yes it must, messieurs…" _

The theater fell silent as the disembodied voice filled the air, settling in their ears uncomfortably, like something clammy and smelling of death. 

_"Seal my fate tonight, monsieurs…let the audience in, let my opera BEGIN!" _

The last word shook the music stands in the orchestra pit with its reverberation and the players held their instruments close, trembling in fear. 

Clarice grabbed Raoul's sleeve. "He knows, he's known all along…you must see that now, _please _ Raoul, won't you—" 

He shook free of her roughly. "No, don't try to stop this Cassandra. It _is_ war between us after all." Spinning around to face box five he shouted a challenge into the empty theater. "Show yourself, monster!" 

"I'm here," – Raoul whirled toward the stage – "I'm here" – Clarice twitched as the voice came from right behind her left ear – " _I'm here_!" All heads turned in the same direction at last as a flutter of black cloak appeared in the balcony of box five. 

Malfois' arm came up, the gun held at ready – Clarice's eyes went wide – Raoul knocked the arm away before he could fire. 

"Idiot!" he seethed, "You'll kill someone! Wait until the time is right." 

Clarice glanced back at box 5 to find it deserted. She heard her sigh of relief as it escaped her lips. 

_"Ouch!" _

_Meg Giry sighed mightily. "If you would stop fidgeting like that, Christine, then these bobby pins wouldn't poke you." She returned to adjusting her friend's wig. "Goodness, I've never seen you this nervous before. Don't you have faith in your vicomte?" she asked teasingly. _

_Christine laughed. "Of course I do, silly. I would have never agreed to it if I didn't."_

_And she had agreed to it in the end. She was doing the right thing, by preventing more deaths. The Phantom would not leave the Opera alone as long as she was there. She had a duty._

And yet… _she could not explain the horrible feeling of guilt that would not leave her soul. The feeling that none of this mattered, that the bond she had once forged with her Master transcended the bounds of common morality. The bond stuck to her mind, gluing her excuses together into an unsightly mass. _

_"Girls!" _

_Christine and Meg both jumped as the powerful voice of Madam Giry boomed through the door. _

_"Yes, maman?" Meg said timidly. _

_"Curtain in fifteen minutes. Meg, I want you out here **now**. Christine is quite capable of dressing herself."_

_"Yes maman," Meg muttered as her face fell. She gave Christine a quick hug. "Good luck!" she whispered as she moved quickly out the door, leaving Christine more alone than she had ever felt during her life. Adjusting the wig one last time, Christine rose from her chair and took a deep breath. She briefly glanced over at the still face of the mirror and shivered._

It didn't seem possible for time to move so slowly. Every aria seemed to take a lifetime, the scene changes several eternities, and as for the actual opera…Clarice folded her hands in her lap to prevent herself from tapping her fingers incessantly against her armrests. 

Her eyes danced everywhere except the stage. She saw Andre's nervous face within his box, and once she saw him glance fearfully toward the chandelier. Raoul was somewhere backstage. She saw the erratic, frenzied movements of the conductor's hands as Monteux attempted to salvage the discordant majesty of the piece. She saw a finely dressed woman in the audience massage her left temple as the orchestra hit a particularly ugly chord. 

The disaster beyond imagination could never be worse than the waiting for it to occur. 

Sighing, Clarice looked back towards the stage. She almost allowed herself to smile as a familiar soprano voice floated from the stage. Christine had made her appearance at last, dressed in a flowing gown with a plunging neckline. The fear in her eyes was easy to see, but, ah…she was in as good voice as ever. That, and the assured, rehearsed gait of her character gave her the impression of meekness and sensuality at the same time. 

Although she could not forget that it was a performance, Clarice could not help thinking what a dangerous game the young innocent was playing. She wondered if Christine was aware of it at all. 

Her eyes darted to stage right as the curtains of a stage bed moved and Don Juan emerged, dressed in a loose black robe that masked Piangi's weight rather well. Why he almost looked thin… 

Her hands went rigid in her lap. Piangi could never move like that, not unless he had lost half of his body weight in less than two hours. Something was terribly wrong. Then the cloaked figure began to sing and Christine's body froze and she knew.

_She knew it was him; the voice was too deeply embedded in her mind for her to be mistaken and she began to tremble. No, this wasn't supposed to happen to her, they should have never made her do this. The Phantom was there before her, his face hidden beneath the black hood, his hands outstretched, his voice singing words that made her heart twist and race. _

_She was afraid now as she had been afraid when she broke the engagement with Raoul. For in the end, her hopelessly muddled feelings had not played in her decision. Fear had led her like a mindless puppet then and it was fear that made her tremble now beneath her borrowed finery. _

_Oh Papa, she thought, where are you? _

Clarice gripped the arms of her chair so hard that she heard one of them crack. She let go almost immediately, chiding herself for giving into panic. Schooling herself to control her breathing, she reminded herself that nothing could possibly befall Christine while she remained onstage. The Phantom was not that foolish… 

Instead she stared, her mind riveted by the passion play that was taking place before her. It was ironic justice in the end, that the Phantom's true desires should finally emerge under the pretense of an opera. 

A quick glance into the orchestra pit told her that Malfois had noticed nothing amiss.

_His voice was lancing her mind like hot coals burning their way through her muddled mind. She held a hand to her temple, massaging helplessly at the pain. As her character Aminta was supposed to be trembling from barely suppressed desire, the action did not look unnatural. _

_Oh, this foolish, stupid, senseless masquerade… _

_She started as his hand came up, caressing the air before her breast, brushing the edges of her dress, never quite touching her. The bright stage lights gleamed off the circlet of gold upon his ring finger. _

_Something stirred and came to life inside of her then, and she felt a rush through her veins like fire. The audience was waiting, the sea of smiles poised for her move…she took a deep breath and began to sing her half of the lover's duet. _

_A carefully timed gasp, a swish of the dress, a coy backward glance…it was simple, really, all of it. It was easy to imagine that the cloaked figure moving about her with the skeletal grace of a dancer was merely another player in this marvelous game. Her petrified mind would not have allowed her to function to otherwise. _

_She floated comfortably upon the rippling eddies of her illusion, drifting ever further from shore. It was beautiful out there, with sensuous notes entwining her in a grasp as delicate and powerful as the sea. _

_She felt a sensation like fire traveling up her arm and she leaned into the embrace. Resting her head against his face she could feel his rapid breaths upon her cheek, the cloth of his hood soft like spiderwebs on her skin…the bone-white mask visible through the sheer fabric. _

_The dream flew away on ragged wings of darkness and she jerked away from him with the force of sheer panic. He grabbed her and drew her roughly back towards him and the stark coldness of his touch made her gasp. _

_Everything happened so fast then – his voice was speaking in a tender plea that tore at her heart as she trembled with fear. Then he was holding out the golden ring to her, his hands clasped together in supplication as she put it on, and she couldn't think anything except that everything felt so wrong. _

_She would never know where she found the courage to do what she did next. Her hands were rising seemingly of their own volition and grasping the edges of the mask. His eyes widened in horror as he saw what she meant to do, but it was already too late. She had to see him…she had to prove to herself that she had the courage to resist. _

_The mask was in her hand and she heard the gasp arise from the audience. _

_See my angel of torment… _

_There was a sudden movement by her feet. She turned, as steadily as a body swinging from a noose, turned to look in that direction. _

_The marksman! _

_She had forgotten. _

_She saw the head rise from the orchestra pit like a tiger from the grass, the man's face contorted in fierce triumph…There was the pair of eyes looking down the length of a gun barrel pointed at him!…at her! And she grasped the edges of the Phantom's cloak trying to pull him away, felt his hands on her, trying to do the same, and she was mouthing the words "No…no…" with frozen lips but they were defenseless on the open stage and there was the cold, emotionless light in the man's eyes as he pulled the trigger. _

_The hammer clicked in an empty chamber. _

_She could hear Raoul's desperate, enraged cry as he ran from backstage. Christine got one glimpse of his face – frozen in a mask of horror – before he leaped into the orchestra pit, tackling the man and wrenching the weapon from his grasp. "Monsieur, **what were you thinking **? If you had hurt her…" _

_And then the Phantom was standing before her, his tall form draped in black blocking her view. Raising her eyes to meet his, she reeled from the fury in his gaze. She opened her mouth soundlessly…what could she say? I'm sorry? Nothing came out and his cloak enveloped her, trapping her in suffocating darkness. She felt the floor fall out from under her and the shouts and screams faded away._

Clarice had stood from her seat the moment Christine had lifted the mask from the face of her erstwhile tutor. She saw the figure whirl, facing an audience that gasped at the horror revealed. A horror that, at her distance and angle to the stage, she could not see clearly. 

But she clearly saw them disappear, the stage empty for a breathless moment, before the surge of panicked cast members and stagehands burst from the wings. She whirled and began clawing at the door to her box, her hands slippery from sweat as they twisted the handle ineffectually. Panic rose in her throat, shocking and uncontrolled, until she forced her shaking hands to still and wrenched the door open. 

Piangi…she could well imagine the fate that must have befallen the unfortunate man when he had been replaced on stage. Carlotta's instantly recognizable scream only confirmed her suspicions and she ran faster.

_She offered no resistance as he hurried her along the dark corridors, descending ever deeper into the bowels of the Opera House. Her eyes were glassy with shock and resigned hopelessness, and he was relieved. It would have been utterly inconvenient and tiresome to have to drag her struggling form down all those flights of stairs._

_While he rowed across the lake she sat unmoving in the prow of the boat, trembling slightly, and then only from the cold. She stirred only when the boat pulled alongside the dock. Her head came up and when she saw the familiar recessed door set into stone, her eyes filled with fear._

_He watched her with grim satisfaction. "Congratulations, Christine." He saw her start as he spoke, his harsh voice stripped of all beauty. "You see this place now for what it really is. Welcome to hell, my fallen angel." And he grasped her hand firmly in his and pulled her onto land._

"Raoul!" 

Clarice shoved her way through the panicking crowds and ran behind the hastily dropped curtain in time to see Madame Giry climbing out of the staircase in the backstage area. It took her some time recognize the old ballet mistress. But when she did, she saw the mirrored recognition dawn in the woman's eyes and saw her hastily look away. She seized Mme Giry's arm as she tried to sidle away into the crowd. 

"Where is he? Where did you send the vicomte?" 

"I don't—" 

"Madam, you are in no trouble now, but you _will_ be if you do not tell me right away." 

The old woman took one look at her face and set her lips into a grim line. "The fifth cellar, madam. That is where the Opera Ghost lives." She caught Clarice's hand as she was about to duck into the stairwell. "You would do best following the rest of the stagehands. He would not dare to attack them all." 

Clarice shook free of the constraining hand roughly. "And I would suggest you do your best to keep those men from hunting him. For if they meet, there will be bloodshed tonight." She looked into Mme Giry's shocked face for a brief instant before descending into the labyrinthine cellars. 

She heard a massive rumble shake the very foundations of the theater as she lifted a lantern from its hook on the damp rock wall. The clouds had split open and the storm of the century was pouring from the sky.

_"Have you read Dante, my dear? If you had you would know that the deepest circle of the inferno is reserved for betrayers," Erik jeered, sweeping a great stack of music from the top of the piano to the floor. He opened the door to Christine's room and pushed her inside, letting go of her hand at last, watching as she lifted her free hands to her face, her eyes wide._

_"Are you frightened, Christine?" he continued in a mocking voice, throwing open her wardrobe doors. "You have no right to be frightened, **no right**! I have never hurt you. It's you who has hurt me. It was you that unmasked me in front of an entire audience. Do you what it is like to be naked in front of hundreds of people that all despise you? No, of course you wouldn't…" _

_He turned, his shoulders rising and falling heavily with his breathing, his back to the open wardrobe. "But I've forgotten how easily you are frightened. You ran from me after the chandelier fell because you feared my wrath, and you found comfort in the arms of your childhood friend. Then you ran from him as well and you want to run from me now." He shook his head. "Childish, cruel Christine. Your vicomte accuses me of playing games with your mind, but my manipulations are nothing compared to yours. And you will pay, Christine, you've escaped your responsibility too long." _

_Then he reached inside the wardrobe and his hands emerged holding a wedding dress, the filmy gauze of the veil trailing from his fingers like a cobweb. _

_"Put it on, my dear." He advanced with glee toward her horrified face and dragged her back out into the main room. "You must look proper to greet the wedding guests." _

_"Gu-guests?" _

_"But of course. Your lover will come storming down here in no time at all." _

_"No…he can't. He doesn't know the way." _

_"I beg to differ. I'm sure that he had a very good guide. Madam Giry would only be too happy to reveal my location for fear of your safety." _

_"Madam Giry…knows you?" _

_"Feeling betrayed, Christine?" he drawled sarcastically. "How ironic. In this case, your admiration of your ballet mistress remains intact. She had no part in any of my actions. She merely remained silent for fear of my safety. A tragedy of misguided concern." _

_Erik fell silent as sounds from the lake drifted in through the open door. Splashes like that of a drowning man, faint at first and growing ever louder, could be heard with increasing clarity. _

_"Raoul!" Christine screamed in despair. _

_"Shhh." Erik's finger hovered over her lips. "We mustn't dissuade our guest. He is as eager to begin the ceremony as I." _

_They did not have long to wait. The vicomte ran into the room, disheveled, his torn white shirt dripping cold water onto the carpet. He stopped dead at the sight before him, his mouth opening in horror. _

_Erik stepped away from Christine with a mock bow. "Monsieur, I bid you welcome." Then with a single fluid motion, the Punjab lasso coiled about the young man's neck before twisting and suspending him in the middle of the room. "We had rather hoped that you would come. Do stay for awhile." His laughter rattled like bones in the air. _

---------- 

A/N: 1) Pierre Monteux, the fictional conductor of Don Juan was the real-life conductor of Stravinsky's _Rite of Spring_, a piece that could have rivaled Erik's in discordance and innovation at the time. A riot broke out during the premiere and you couldn't hear the music for the people screaming and throwing things from the boxes. Prophetic, no? And, if the timeline was exact, he would have been about 7 years old for _Don Juan_, but we can stretch things a bit.

2) "Malfois" literally means "bad faith" in French.

3) The 1877 Colt Lightning was Billy the Kid's weapon of choice. 


	12. Twisted Every Way: Counterpoint II

A/N: I am more sorry than I can ever say. I promised this chapter would come a lot faster than it did. Suffice it to say, final lair has been as much a nightmare to me as to the characters involved. It took me one week just to write three paragraphs, arrgh. That said, it's done, and I feel as if I've just given birth to something way beyond my original aspirations. Also, I have uploaded a revised version of chapter 1. Nothing plot-wise has changed but hopefully the writing quality is better. 

Many thanks to Narsil for kindly beta-reading the chapter. Although she insists she did nothing, she managed to ease my natural hyper-paranoia when it comes to my own work. Thanks, dear. :) 

Disclaimer: One line in this chapter is taken from an amazing Harry Potter fic on this site called "Summon the Lambs to Slaughter", I highly recommend it.

**Chapter 12 **

**Twisted Every Way: Counterpoint II **

One foot in front of the other…through darkness, over tripwires. Clarice had picked the shortest path to the fifth cellar that she knew, which also happened to be one of the most heavily booby-trapped. 

She forced her feet to slow and wrestled her impatience into submission. It wouldn't do to make a mistake. Not now… 

The image of Raoul's garroted body, his dead eyes staring from a mask of terror, flashed before her vision with disturbing frequency. He stood no chance against the Phantom. Like Buquet and Piangi had stood no chance. 

And yet…a distant memory was returning: Buquet impersonating the Phantom on that morning when she had seen the dark creature for the first time. Buquet demonstrating how to escape the noose – his hand upthrust between his neck and the rope. Yes, that was it. 

Clarice lifted her lantern higher, until it was hovering right before her face at the level of her eyes. She proceeded even more cautiously, starting at every flickering shadow. 

_The boy never even had a chance._

_It was rather disappointing, really, but the look in his eyes when the rope hung taut in midair delighted Erik far more than a fair fight would have. He heard Christine scream and watched impassively as she rushed towards him, hesitated and then ran to the boy to tug vainly at the deadly noose._

_The scene looked like a well-choreographed dance. If the dancers' shoes had been replaced with skates and the dance floor with the thawing surface of a frozen lake. Erik felt the ice shudder beneath his feet and laughed._

_"It seems as if you are the only guest, dear monsieur. Still, no matter." He stretched languidly and Christine flinched as if she expected him to pounce. "I could ask for no better witness to the ceremony. After all, you were more than willing to send her to me." He smiled without humor. "Shall I reject such a gift? Especially one given with such **honorable** intentions?"_

_Sweat was beginning to pour from the vicomte's face from the effort of standing upon his toes to prevent strangulation. But the hatred was clearly visible in his flashing eyes._

_"Monster…I was not the one who threw fire in the direction of the woman I supposedly loved—" _

_Erik rounded upon him, seizing the boy's hair in one hand and jerking his head up roughly. "Never speak to me like that, monsieur… **Raoul**, if I may." He hissed angrily. "You are the last person to accuse someone else of acting in 'bad faith'. Tell me, what possessed you to entrust her life to a man like that? I, at least, never fail to hurt those I intend. Pain is an art that I have mastered, while you still know nothing of the love you claim to possess. Shall I demonstrate?" _

_He let go of Raoul and inclined the palm of his hand upward. Immediately, the noose rose higher into the air. The unfortunate man strained to stand up taller, gasping and choking. _

_"Leave him alone!" Christine rushed forward, finally daring to touch him, she tugged vainly at his arm. "Please…stop. Please, I'll do anything…" _

_He turned around so quickly that she jumped back, startled. His voice was deathly quiet. "More lies, Christine? More tricks?" _

_"No." Her hands grasped at his coat sleeve again, like a drowning person clutching at a tattered sail. "No…please, I promise, I promise…" _

_Erik laughed. "Very well then, Christine. We shall see how good your word is." He advanced on her until she was forced to take a step back, the back of her leg bumping into a couch. "Stay…stay with me forever. Refuse…and you send your lover to his death." _

_He saw her eyes, frozen in disbelief, before the dawning realization crept over her face like a cancerous mass. She swayed, gripping the edge of the couch for support, free hand rising to cover her face, and he knew that his strange passion play had come to an end at last and that it would destroy them all. _

_It was finished. Christine would choose what she must, and the boy would die before this night was over. With maddened glee he entertained the thought of the tears spilling down her cheeks when she saw her beloved dead. She had such _skill_ for crying. He didn't bother to think of what would happen afterwards or what he would do. It was her fault, after all, and she must pay the price. _

_The tears were already starting to appear. Yes, there they were – sparkling hot diamonds falling from the eyes of his fallen angel – her radiance flickering like a morning star sinking into the prison of his dark mind. _

_He watched without emotion as her shoulders began to shake, her mouth moving in a helpless curse. _

_"I…hate you." The words were soft but confident. Christine's head came up and she stamped her foot like a child. "I hate you!" she shrieked. She whirled around without waiting to see his reaction, covering her face with her hands. Tears leaked through her fingers as she crumbled like a paper doll whose edges had been burnt. "I hate you…" she whimpered, sitting down heavily upon the carpeted stone. _

A sudden movement in the darkness. Clarice whirled, her hand up in front of her face, in time to see the naked gray tail of a rat moving out from the glow of the lantern to vanish into the blackness. 

Taking a deep breath, she chided herself for panicking so easily. She was out of practice already. 

The reality of what she was doing hit her then and her body froze. She was descending into darkness to confront a phantasm who had strangled a man onstage in less than half a minute, in complete silence. A pair of cold-blooded amber eyes flashed before her and she shook her head fiercely. She shifted her leg and calmed as she felt the familiar weight on her thigh. 

Clarice turned, lifting the lantern. Before her, where there had once been a path, she now saw a blank gray wall. 

_It hit him like a wave, rolling over him, wrenching his feet out from under him and spitting him out only after he had lost all sense of direction. _

_It didn't matter. It shouldn't matter. It was inevitable in the end that she would despise him. His master – burning, seething madness flowing through his veins like sweet morphine – commanded it. And like his precious toxin, its intoxication didn't last very long. _

_He could feel its cool embrace pulling away and he cried out to it, reaching out beseechingly. He opened his eyes to see Christine standing protectively before the boy, toward whom he was extending a trembling, skeletal hand. _

_He recoiled, his fingers curling into his fist. He looked into Christine's terrified, indignant eyes. _Let me in, child. I will not harm thee. I carry only death in my arms. _His lips twisted into a grimace and, feeling rather like he was beating his head against an unyielding wall, resigned himself to his fate._

_Too late, too late now, and no way to go but forward._

Intent on continuing forward in the direction that she told herself had to be unobstructed, Clarice pounded upon the wall with her fist. The wall had not been there two seconds ago. It stood to reason that it should not be there now. This was no maze of mirrors. The path was known to her. She had trod it countless times in the past. She must take the same path now, if she even dared to still hope to save them. 

She saw Raoul's horrorstruck eyes, realizing how he had almost killed his love, Christine closing her eyes against the cruel world, the dark Phantom menacing with his voice while cringing from her touch… 

She heard her angry scream echo through the narrow space like a gunshot, and as she continued to beat upon the unyielding wall, she felt dampness on her cheeks and recognized them as tears.

_In some cold, isolated portion of her mind, Christine could hear the sounds of Raoul's pleading, the distant shouts of an angry mob, maybe even her own sobs wracking her slight frame. Yet this assault on her auditory sense paled in comparison to the sight before her eyes. _

_Wearing the mask all his life had conditioned the Phantom to the knowledge that his facial expressions always remained concealed from ignorant eyes. And now with this protection gone, the stark emotion upon his visage overwhelmed her. _

_Fear! She recognized it now despite never having seen it before. Beneath the twisted scowl, the molten eyes, and the ragged lump of flesh that passed for a nose was a terrible emptiness deep within his skull. As she watched, her Angel shuddered violently and seemed to shrink within his own body. He turned away from her. _

_"Make your choice!" he snarled._

_She looked and a layer of something seemed to fall away from him and shatter. Christine felt the shards pierce her heart and then she saw the man before her, the trembling grief-stricken man, his face turned away from her eyes._

_Something stirred within her and came to life, battering the walls of her chest in a flurry of wings. Clinging to the arm of the sofa for support, she drew herself to her feet, standing up entirely only when she trusted the strength of her limbs._

Clarice forced her bruised fists away from the wall and ran, blindly, in the opposite direction. She would find her way again, this all had to make sense…somehow. 

She stopped suddenly when she saw a section of rock jutting out from the wall at a familiar angle. Breathing a sigh of relief, she continued deeper into the labyrinth. 

_Erik could hear the sounds of Raoul struggling with the noose in the background and felt a sudden flash of pity for him. The unfortunate man never meant for this to happen. Much like he himself had never intended for any of—this—to occur. He smiled grimly, the road to hell, monsieur, the road to hell…_

_He could hear Christine's sobs behind him and allowed himself the smallest burden of regret. He could not blame her in the end. The pulsating sensation behind his eyes every time he drew near her was not, and could never be, hatred._

_He felt himself slipping, and the blackness over the edge smiled a terrible smile as it opened its gaping mouth to welcome him._

_He should have never risked opening his soul to her, never desired more than to admire her from the safety of darkness, never desired her touch like a normal man…He heard her moving behind him and half-turned to face their inevitable fate._

_And then her lips had closed over his, her hands pressing against his sunken cheeks. Warmth radiated from her touch onto his death-cold skin and Erik nearly gasped with pain. And then he could think no more._

The path turned upon itself and Clarice stopped before a dead end. She turned around slowly, lifting the lantern, searching for any indication of where she was, refusing to acknowledge what her heart already knew. 

She was utterly lost. 

_Her world had turned upon its axis and she gasped as the blood rushed to her head, dizzying and intoxicating. She felt something fluttering inside her like a caged bird, colliding against the walls of her chest in its effort to escape. _

_Erik's twisted lips trembled upon hers and her mind was overwhelmed by the taste of him. There were cobwebs, clinging to dark corners like ghostly shadows of memories. She savored the flavor of his genius, cool and fierce at the same time like dark, rich wine. She tasted the thousand tears shed for his dark fate – like fireflies descending into a yawning cave mouth –she felt them swell from inside his heart. And everywhere, everywhere was the coppery, greasy taste of despair. _

_The bile rose in her throat at the thought of the anguish slowly killing her Angel and tears fell from her own eyes as she pressed her lips more firmly against his. _

Retracing her footsteps proved no easy feat. Every gray wall, every identical stone mocked her with their presence until she finally closed her eyes, abandoning her trust in sight. She let her feet guide her in a direction she knew was forward. She walked towards what her mind screamed at her was nothing but a wall and she kept walking.

_His hands were trembling, his arms hovering by her sides, fingers curling around empty air. He had no idea what to do with them. He didn't dare to touch her. He thought only that he had fooled his angel into believing that she loved him, and the self-disgust rose in his soul to overwhelm his mind._

_But then her lips that had touched his with trembling trepidation had turned warm and demanding against his mouth and he felt himself drowning in her touch. He hung upon each passing second, committing it to memory. Because he knew then what he had to do._

_She was his now. All his plotting, his sins, his selfish desires had done nothing in the end. They had fallen like a house of cards at her touch._

_He had her love in the palm of his hand, and he realized now the terrible price he must pay. Having tasted the fruit of Eden he was banished from paradise forevermore._

_Take your revenge, dear, merciful God. I must commend you…you are crueler than my master ever was…_

_She pulled away from him and the look in her eyes nearly undid him. The stunned revelation and the longing as she reached for him again. But he placed a finger against her lips, begging her to stop, to stop this before he lost his resolve and destroyed them both._

_He staggered back from her, feeling as if something essential had drained from his body. Across the room, he saw a young man hanging from a rope by his neck and he idly wondered how that had happened. A flaming candle made short work of the rope, and the man collapsed upon the floor, gasping and choking. He saw Christine run over to him and wrap her arms around his shaking body. He must have been somebody important to her._

_Insane with grief, he turned away. "Go…go now. Leave me!" He turned back, saw them still there and something snapped inside him. "GET OUT OF HERE! Leave me!" he screamed as he heard glass shattering beneath his hands, dimly feeling the pain as unseen shards bit into his flesh._

_He ran at them, waving his arms and shouting like a child having a temper tantrum, and then they were gone and the world whirled before his eyes._

Get out of my house…I don't want you here anymore, you demon child – _Erik staggered back across the empty room, pressing his fingers against his lips – _all fire burns, little one, you'll learn –_He whimpered and a low keening wail escaped his throat. He sat down heavily upon the carpeted stone floor and when he opened his eyes again he saw the bulbous beady eyes of the Persian monkey staring back at him._

_Reaching toward the music box he took one of the brown-furred hands between finger and thumb and laughed carelessly, using the other hand to cover its features._

_"Come…you and I…and let us go to the masquerade. No one will ever know…"_

_His hands dropped and his head dipped until it rested in his palms. Then and only then did he allow himself to weep._

Clarice opened her eyes and found herself upon a path that dipped to the right at a familiar angle. Breathing a sigh of relief, she felt her way along it, recalling the recognizable feel of the uneven stones against her feet. 

_He was pushing her away, his skeletal fingers that had come alive with warmth, touching her sides with the faintest caress that throbbed with restrained passion, were cold as ice. They pushed away her hands that clutched at the lapels of his coat. She could see his mouth moving, he was screaming something at her, she couldn't hear. She couldn't feel Raoul's hand that grasped hers. Her Angel, her teacher, her – she didn't know what anymore! – pushed her away._

_She had given him her soul in that instant, she could never have given anything greater and he did not want what she had – she realized now – freely, given. _

_Bit by bit, her vision cleared to reveal her dark angel, his hands clenching into trembling fists, an expression upon his face she could not understand. With an animal scream, he brought his fists crashing into the glass face of a bookshelf, the closest thing in his lair to a mirror that he could find. She saw the blood run down his hands, heard his choking, pained sob, and she did the only thing she could have done. _

_She ran… _

_For minutes, hours, lifetimes, she didn't know…as Raoul led her, tripping and stumbling, through dark hallways that felt utterly foreign to her. _

_The feel of his twisted, trembling lips on hers…the look in his eyes as she pulled away, the sight blurred by her own tears…she stumbled upon an invisible fault on the path, and Raoul looked back, his eyes pleading…they were not safe, not yet… _

_A hand materialized out of the darkness and she shrieked as it descended upon her arm._

"Christine!" Clarice shook the terrified woman none too gently, taking in her tears and Raoul's unharmed appearance with disbelief. "What happened? Christine!" The young woman wilted in her grasp, sobbing with renewed fervor. Clarice supported her with her other arm to keep her from falling to the floor. "Raoul?" she asked, looking into his grim face. 

The young man relieved her of her burden and cradled Christine's trembling form in his arms. "He let us go." His voice was measured and hushed, as if he did not believe them himself. "She promised herself to him, and…he let us go." 

Clarice stepped back a pace, her mind helplessly attempting to comprehend the torrent of emotions festering within the two people standing before her. Her lips felt unnaturally dry as she opened her mouth. The words died in her throat. There was nothing she could have said. 

"Raoul," she managed at last in a strangled tone. "Go. Go quickly. There is a mob coming into the cellars, you mustn't let them find you." 

Christine stirred, lifting her head at her words. Her eyes were shining with tears even as they filled with fear. "Madam, they mustn't find him. Cassandra, please…they'll kill him…" 

Clarice stared hard at her and then turned to Raoul. "Take her away from here." And then she pushed past them, running down the dark hallway as Christine's sobs echoed around her like the sound of breaking glass.

_She had killed him, oh God she had killed him…Raoul's hand pulled her forward and she resisted, panicking from the thought. _

_Raoul's voice reached her ears faintly, as if echoing across a wide chasm. "Christine…listen to me. They'll never find him, Cassandra will see to that. He let you go to ensure your safety, don't let his sacrifice go to waste." _

_She looked up, color beginning to creep back into her cheeks and she considered his words. Her resolve faltered underneath his concerned gaze, and she hesitated only briefly before nodding. _

_Fumbling for a handkerchief in her dress, Christine brought her hand to her tear-streaked face. She stopped as she saw the gleam of gold upon her thumb. The Phantom's ring. Surely she could not keep it. But to go back… _

_Christine removed the golden ring from her finger and put it safely out of sight in her dress pocket, wrapped up in her tear-soaked handkerchief. Then, grabbing Raoul's hand, she ran once more, up and up…back to the surface. _

The cellars below the Opera Garnier were privy to a musical performance never before heard in its short life. The murmuring grumble of an approaching mob saturated with bloodlust provided a steady bass line to the discordant melody of shattered, broken sobs. The dark hallways held their breath – all was silence but for the steady drip-drip of water – in contemplation of this strange new music. 

With a growl, the murky labyrinth expressed its disappointment over the performance. The sound of the mob swelled and the sounds of despair were deafened by its approach. 

Clarice could hear it all as she furiously poled across the lake in the abandoned boat, her lack of skill apparent in the crooked path the craft cut across the dark waters. The lead she had gained from her knowledge of the cellars would not last long; she heard the mob descending ever closer. The boat ran aground into the dock far sooner then she had dared to hope. She leapt onto land and ran towards the door that lay open in the rock wall. 

She stopped dead at the scene of utter devastation that met her eyes. Candelabras lay fallen on the floor and broken black candles were strewn across the carpet. The shattered glass face of a bookshelf could be seen in the corner, crimson droplets of blood still clinging to the jagged shards. The only thing that looked relatively undisturbed was the great black piano and some stacks of parchment with music written on them in red ink. Almost mechanically, Clarice grabbed a handful of the loose leaves, knowing already that the composer was long gone. 

She nearly jumped out of her skin as a few tinny notes played from a music box on the floor. Moving closer, she saw that it was shaped like a monkey dressed in strange robes holding a pair of cymbals in its hands. As she turned away, something white glistened upon the piano bench. 

She picked up the porcelain half-mask in her hand; it was cool to her touch. Feeling suddenly nervous, she held the mask close to her chest, glancing around the empty room, looking for moving shadows. 

The music box played one last distorted note before falling silent. 

Slowly, thoughts began to move through her sluggish brain. The Phantom would never dare appear in public without his mask. He was still here…somewhere in the labyrinth. 

Clarice's mind was made up before she even began to consider her options. 

However…first things first. Choosing a likely door, she strode through it, finding herself in what could only be the Phantom's bedroom. She glanced briefly at the "Dies Irae" scrawled across the black tapestries, her eyes skimming over the magnificent organ and the open coffin standing in the middle of room before she turned away to throw open the doors of the wardrobe. 

Christine's tear-streaked face flashed before her eyes as she stripped out of her dress, exchanging her finery for the first shirt and pair of pants she found. 

_That fool!_ Air rushed into her lungs as she unfastened her corset before tossing it aside. The black pants permitted full range of motion but were hopelessly long. She rolled up the legs and tied them firmly before tucking the music sheets into the waistband. _That idiotic, noble…fool!_

The golden casings of six bullets clattered to the carpeted floor as they spilled out from the bodice of the discarded dress. 

She slipped the mask inside the voluminous shirtfront. 

After rowing back across the lake, she stepped out of the boat onto shore. With a mighty shove, she pushed the craft away into the middle of lake and watched until it disappeared from sight. 

Then and only then, for the first time since she had come to Paris, Clarice Starling released the pistol strapped to her thigh and held it firmly with both hands. Her palms tingled from the feel of the familiar weapon, her breaths shallow with anticipation. 

She had abandoned the Agency after they had abandoned her, but one thing they taught her she would never forget: the thrill of the chase. She paused to lift one hand from the pistol to grasp the lantern. Slipping into a side passageway with an assured gait, she moved ever deeper into the twisted labyrinth of the underground kingdom, seeking its master. 

------------- 

THE END 

Just kidding. ;) 

No, I am not quite as cruel as Andrew Lloyd Webber. No…this story is far from over. 

A/N: To Siyrean and Narsil, Hannibal is still sulking in his study and will be back either in the next chapter or the one after that. Depending on what sort of reaction Erik has on finding a woman with a gun prowling through his cellars. Mwhaha, encounter time. Time to refresh your memory of that betting pool. ;) 


	13. Confrontation

A/N: Here it is then, the long-awaited (well, by me at least) Erik/Clarice confrontation. Hannibal is the next chapter, I *promise*, his part's already been written. Remember the betting pools? Erik was leading 3-2. Read on read on…*grins wickedly*

**Chapter 13**

**Confrontation**

It was like venturing into the throat of some mighty beast. On her way down, Clarice had been comforted by her certainty that the Phantom was otherwise occupied in his lair. Now the darkness of the empty hallways seemed to pulsate with tangible malice. Every step, every turn was uncertain. Her pulse quickened as she rounded yet another silent corner.

The blackness swarmed with dream shapes and the steady roar of an angry mob sounded the beast's growl somewhere deep in its belly. Clarice held her lantern high with one hand, her pistol cocked and ready with the other. She wondered then, as she walked over the rough flagstones of the old Communard's road, what exactly she would do when, if, she found the Phantom.

She could not kill him. This she already knew. Past experience…and an insatiable curiosity would not let her destroy such a man. No matter how he greeted her. But could the Phantom look into the eyes of a person holding the barrel of a gun upon him and know that she was incapable of pulling the trigger? She hoped not.

The indistinct sound of the mob swelled into a triumphant roar. They must have found their way across the lake. Clarice forced her steps to remain steady as the sounds of bloodlust and crashing objects rang through the passageway. But even she was forced to halt as the mob found the piano.

Like Orpheus' death rattle, a great crashing, discordant sound exploded through the darkness and Clarice winced as she imagined the magnificent black instrument breaking under the enraged mob. She closed her eyes in pain and therefore almost missed what happened next.

The flesh on her arms rippled as some sixth sense warned her of another presence in the darkness. An extremely close presence.

She heard the muffled snap of cloth behind her, her ears rang with the memory of the snick snick of a gun cocking in the darkness, and her hand was going up, up, to hover at the level of her eyes. She felt a thin, strong cord settle over her head and tighten mercilessly. The back of her hand began to bleed. The pistol slipped from her frozen fingers, and she heard the low growl of frustration behind her.

"Spirited wench."

And he reached forward to snatch her hand. She felt his weight shift forward, and then she was moving again. Years of training rushed through her limbs and she threw her upper body forward and sideways. She heard the grunt as her attacker bore the brunt of her weight. They both hit the hard rock floor. The music slipped out of her waistband to flutter like fallen leaves to the ground. The lantern shattered upon the rock, its candle sputtering among the glass shards.

Blackness surrounded her. She was trapped in some sort of thick cloth. Crying out in frustration, she ripped the cloak from his shoulders, kneeing him in the kidney as he reached for her again. As he hissed in pain, she retrieved the candle from the broken lantern, lifting it high as she grabbed her pistol from the ground and raised it to torso height.

"Get up. I have a gun pointed at you right now. Keep your hands where I can see them."

The Phantom did not move except to chuckle softly into the floor. _Bested by a woman for the second time tonight!_ A weight descended on his head and he looked up furiously as he snatched the cloak she had thrown at him. He rose to his feet, lifting his eyes to see the gun barrel aimed at the center of his chest.

The candle that she held did not shed enough light for her to see his face. _Pity, I could have gotten her when she was reeling in shock_. Instead he spat something in Latin at her that he was sure she could not understand.

"Now, now, my dear Opera Ghost. I most certainly do _not_ love young goats."

Erik's eyes widened as he refastened the cloak around his shoulders. "Who are you?"

She did not respond. Instead Clarice took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them. Then she thrust the candle towards his face, holding it a hairsbreadth away from his flesh. He could not turn his head in time. The flickering light of the candle threw every intricate detail of his ravaged face into sharp relief.

She blinked.

They did not move from this strangely intimate position for the better part of a minute, and he shook inwardly as she gazed solemnly at his face. This was no look of revulsion. She was peeling away his flesh piece by piece, peering into the black depths of his soul. _How dare she_…desperate rage pulsed through his fingertips but he could not move…

Clarice finally lowered the candle when she saw the beads of sweat forming upon his forehead. Turning her body slightly, never taking her eyes from his face, she dripped candle wax onto a small shelf jutting out from the rock wall and set the candle upright in the pool of hot liquid. She withdrew her hand when she was sure the wax had cooled enough for the candle to remain standing.

"What is your name, Opera Ghost?"

He was tempted not to speak at all. He had been prepared to die tonight after releasing Christine. But not like this…not at the hand of this woman who laughed without mockery, whose eyes burned with something that reminded him eerily of himself.

"Erik," he said, taking care not mutter.

She paused. "No last name?"

"Not to my knowledge," he said with a sneer.

"I see. Erik." She lowered the gun then so that it was no longer trained on his chest but ready to be raised at a moment's notice. "In that case, I believe these belong to you." She held up the leaves of sheet music that had fallen to the floor, each page painstakingly handwritten and signed with the same flowing script.

He stepped back. "Is this some sort of trick?"

She shook her head. "No, Erik. In fact, I believe this is one of the few things tonight that hasn't been some sort of trick. Wouldn't you agree?"

He heard the hostility in her tone easily. "I did no harm to either of them."

"I believe you."

"Why?" he snarled.

"Because I believe Christine."

"You…saw her then."

"Oh yes. And should you like to know, she is safe. You, however, are not."

"I should think that rather obvious."

"From me, Erik? Do you think I am the hound of the mob, that I will stay with my quarry until they come to collect their trophy?" She laughed. "No. I am not here to give you over to them."

"What are you here for then? Women of your social class do not normally find it amusing to prowl through dark cellars."

She looked at him. His twisted, malformed lips were sneering and there was a dangerous glint in his eyes, even as they watched the gun warily. His stature and height in the enclosed space made him look for the all the world like the Grim Reaper's younger and darker brother.

She said it anyway. "I'm here to save you."

The look on his face was utterly unique. She might as well have hit him with a sledgehammer, knocking the hostility, annoyance, and even some of the grief from his face.

Then he threw back his head and laughed long and loud. The empty passageway rang with the harsh sound of it.

"You're very amusing, duchess," he said at last after the mirth subsided.

"Do you see me laughing?"

The hard edges returned to his eyes as he sneered. "Am I a sacrificial lamb to be saved from the slaughter?"

"You…do not deserve to die at the hands of people such as them." Her voice seemed to tremble as she said this. Then whatever had struck her passed and she seemed to stand up taller. "And…" here she smirked, "the world is _far_ more interesting with you in it."

Erik stared hard at her. "You really mean it, don't you?" She could feel him withdrawing, drawing a protective veil across his emotions. He sighed heavily as he half-turned away from her. "No matter. Go. You have no place here."

"And just what will you do if I leave?"

"What I should have done long ago. The mob shouldn't be quite finished destroying my house yet. I'll just go and…"

"No. You won't," said Clarice flatly. "You will follow me as I make my way back to the surface. There, you may do whatever you wish, but I will _not_ let you throw yourself to those vultures."

Erik stiffened and whirled back upon her, his amber eyes that had been dark with sorrow now fiery yellow with anger. "I do not ask for your permission, _madam_," he hissed, and his voice was like a discordant song. "I have never _asked_ for anything in my life. I have taken it. I took and hoarded all the knowledge and beauty the world had to offer. I took the life of a young girl and bent it to my will. And now, I will take my death, as I should have done years ago."

Clarice held out her hands and gestured to the emptiness of the dark passageway. "I do not see Christine here."

Erik made a sudden violent motion toward a pocket of his cloak, and the pistol came up at once.

"_Don't_." Clarice said in a tight voice. She took a breath that caught in her throat. "Don't make me do something I will regret."

Erik laughed; it was a terrible gasping sound. "And just how do plan to ensure my cooperation? What will you do if I refuse?"

Clarice smiled then in a way that Hannibal Lecter would have envied. "I'll kill you," she said simply. "And you're not ready to die, Erik, oh no, not just yet."

"A rather twisted argument to make," he sneered.

"Is it not true?" He did not answer. "You will die by my hand, or you will leave with me and live. It is your choice."

_Not like this…_ he thought. "It is _my_ house, _madam_."

"Not anymore, Erik. This is no longer your home. They—" she jerked her head toward the sounds of the mob, "—have seen to that. But _they_ will never get you. I am a very forgiving person by nature, but there is nothing I hate more than a wasted life."

"Then you will forgive me, madam," Erik said shortly. "For I am a ghost. And ghosts do not have lives to waste."

Clarice narrowed her eyes. She had expected this encounter to be difficult, but it was quickly turning tiresome. Erik's voice was weak and even his sarcasm was half-hearted. If he truly did not wish to live…

"Get past me then," she said. "If you are a true phantom, this pistol cannot harm you and neither can the mob. You've talked yourself into quite a dilemma, Erik."

She would have said more, but the Punjab lasso was speeding towards her before she even had time to blink. She threw herself to the ground as the rope cracked the air above her head like a whip. Three more times the lasso hissed and struck in the space of less than a second as Clarice rolled upon the damp floor, ducking and dodging.

Finally she felt the rope catch and she immediately let go of her pistol to prevent her wrist from being wrenched from its socket. The Punjab lasso tore the weapon from her grasp. She heard the pistol clatter on its journey across the floor before it slid outside the circle of candlelight. Clarice looked up to see Erik holding the rope loosely in his hands, looking as if he had never moved.

She tensed, fear blossoming in the back of her mind, her body feeling naked and defenseless under the intensity of his murderous gaze.

The darkness around them seemed to hold its breath.

Clarice lowered her hands and opened her arms wide, leaving her neck exposed. Her voice was quiet. "Will you kill me now, Erik?" She blinked, and when she opened her eyes, a millisecond later, an eternity later, her adversary had not moved. She took a deep breath, feeling the exhilarating rush of air through her throat. "I saved your life…and hers too. Will you now take mine?"

The Phantom relaxed his grip on the noose infinitesimally. His voice was low, like a storm about to break. "What do you mean?"

"The gun, Erik. Surely you did not think those bullets were obliging enough to hop out of the gun of their own accord?"

"And surely you did not think you had the right to interfere with lives that were not your own."

"My apologies. Both of you were doing a marvelous job on your own."

Fire blazed in his gaze and he tightened his grip on the noose. "I could kill you for that."

Clarice shrugged, her arms still loose at her sides. "Yes, you could," she said simply. "I saved your life then and am trying to do so again. If you find that concept infinitely frightening, then by all means…let us dance."

Something inside of him snapped, and he couldn't take it anymore, anymore of her damnable righteousness or her infuriating truths. Thrusting the Punjab lasso back into its pocket, Erik made a furious sound in his throat and rushed at her full speed, intending to push her aside and escape down the passageway. But she stepped directly in front of him and he raised his hands, grabbing at her arms… he found the floor jerked out from underneath him. His world spun and then he was lying flat on his back upon the ground. His ears rang from cracking his head against the hard stone.

Trying to get back up, he found a foot set firmly across his throat and an elbow against the pressure point on his right arm. He was as immobile as an insect upon a pin. Attempting to retain what little dignity he could, he did not struggle as he looked into the eyes of his assailant with a resoluteness that could not mask his shocked embarrassment.

Clarice released him, allowing him to get to his feet. "You rush into your attack heedlessly and without thought. As you see, there is always a better way."

Erik slowly got to his feet, refusing to look at her. Confusion and shame were knocking against each other in his head and he couldn't wrap his mind around what had just happened. He had lost. He had lost to a…a…

Erik smiled wryly as he turned to face Clarice. "Your not-so-subtle metaphor is duly noted." Rubbing a bump forming upon the back of his head, he sighed. He looked at her again, and an unspoken agreement was made as the two combatants both temporarily sheathed their hostility.

"Lead the way, madam." Clarice looked at him pointedly. He spread his arms open wide. "Do not worry, Madam la Duchesse, I will keep my part of the bargain."

Clarice hesitated, searching his yellow eyes with practiced scrutiny. She nodded, apparently satisfied. Then she paused. "You're bleeding," she said stupidly.

Erik lifted his torn hands in acknowledgment. He glanced at her. "As are you." His eyes took in the gash on the back of her hand left by the Punjab lasso and then moved up her arm. His eyes narrowed. "Onto my shirt, too, might I add."

"My apologies, monsieur. My options were rather limited. But I promise not to make a habit of it."

She fell silent then, unsure of what else to say. She lifted her head to see Erik looking at her inquisitively. Clarice rubbed at her eyes, feeling as if she were brushing cobwebs from her face. Then she turned and took up the candle from its niche in the wall.

Holding the candle aloft, she walked at a brisk pace through the dark tunnels. If she listened carefully, she could make out the continuing shouts of the vengeful crowd several levels down, muffled by stone.

But she could not hear the sounds of Erik's footsteps behind her. Feeling a bit like Orpheus leading his doomed lover from the underworld, Clarice ascended a set of stairs, ignoring the doubt gnawing at her insides. She did not give him the satisfaction of looking back.

After what felt like an eternity and no time at all, she reached the iron gate that she had discovered in the first month of exploration in the cellars. The barrier opened with a whining creak and she stepped out onto the Rue Scribe, feeling the rain beginning to beat upon her head. Only then did she turn, eyes squinting as she struggled to peer into the black mouth of the tunnel from which she had emerged.

For a breathless second, she saw nothing, and the dark tunnel appeared to mock her with its emptiness. Then a white shape disturbed the shadows. A pale hand grasped the iron handle as Erik stepped out into the street, shutting the gate behind him.

She felt the sigh of relief she hadn't realized she had been holding escape her ribcage in a great rush. As she watched, the Phantom lifted his eyes to look upon the outside world. He breathed hard and his limbs convulsed as the rain beat upon him and thunder growled around them.

He was not looking at her. His eyes seemed to focus on nothing at all as he turned his face toward the night sky, unconsciously tilting the ravaged side of his face toward the pounding rain. He closed his eyes as the water ran down his cheeks like tears from heaven.

She opened her mouth and stopped, hesitant to break this strange spell. "Erik…"

A carriage swept to a halt before her, and Clarice jumped back, startled, from the small wave of water that splashed from the wheels. Then the door of the carriage was opening and a familiar voice was calling her name.

"Cassandra?"

She looked up and saw a white-faced Christine huddled against the back of her seat and sitting across from her, leaning out the door and shielding his eyes from the pouring rain was…

"Raoul?"

She turned, afraid to see Erik's reaction. Before the Rue Scribe entrance into the Opera cellars, there was nothing but the rain beating against an empty sidewalk.

---------------

* For those who want to brush up on their Latin insults, it was "Amas haedos!" pronounced "Ah-mahs hay-dose."


	14. Carpe Noctem

A/N: We're approaching the end of one journey and the beginning of another. I should let you dear readers know now that this story will be in two parts. This chapter brings the first part to an end cheers. There will be one "Interlude" chapter before we jump right into part two and the home stretch. Thanks for hanging in here this long, many exciting adventures lie ahead. One textual note…I know in Leroux, Raoul's mother died giving birth to him, but this AU changes things around a little bit for the sake of symbolic irony. And on a completely unrelated topic, this chapter makes this story exactly one chapter longer than my other epic! (which was never finished) This is encouraging news…

Chapter 14

Carpe Noctem

Clarice blinked stupidly. _Raoul? Here? It wasn't possible. The golden couple must have left ages ago. Surely she had spent several lifetimes in those cellars._ _She could still feel the darkness clinging to her skin…_

She came back to herself in time to see the vicomte step out of the carriage, his face all boyish concern. He held out a hand to her.

"Good heavens, Cassandra. Come inside before you drown."

Clarice looked at his extended fingers and looked past them to Christine's huddled form in the shadows of the carriage. She reached forward and took his hand, it was cold and wet with rain. As she followed him into the cab, she felt as if she were passing through some viscous, sucking substance that she left behind in the rain.

She sat down heavily upon the seat, feeling weariness seizing her limbs. There was stillness but for the dull drumming of raindrops on the thin roof. Flashes of lightning revealed Raoul's outline as he ducked back through the door, the upper half of his body exposed to the night as he spoke to the coachman.

A stab of anxiety made Clarice lift her hand, intending to pull him back from his defenseless position. She lowered it just as quickly. Through her door-shaped window, the shadows of night were still and innocent and the rain continued to beat upon an empty road.

Still, it seemed an eternity before the vicomte ducked back into the cab, closing the door behind him. He had a large blanket in his arms and he passed it to Clarice as the carriage began to move. Raoul had given her the coachman's horse blanket, and she felt bits of straw embedded in the coarse fibers scratch her skin as she rubbed sensation back into her arms. She patted her sodden hair dry and glanced again at Christine.

The young woman had the same lifeless look in her eyes as the day they had returned from her father's grave. Her hands lay empty and still in her lap.

"Cassandra?"

Clarice blinked as she realized that Raoul had been speaking to her. "Hmm?"

"What—what happened to you?"

She blinked several times more as she deciphered his question. Then she looked down at herself. The white shirt was soaked completely through and the outline of her slip was clearly visible through the sodden fabric. She pulled the blanket up until it covered her up past the waist. She could feel the hard edge of the mask pressing against her abdomen. Her hair had come undone from its chignon and fell below her shoulders in wet strings.

"I…I had some trouble crossing the lake and was obliged to change my wardrobe." She looked over again at Christine, searching for any sign of recognition before she realized the unlikelihood of Christine recognizing Erik's clothes from any other set of men's attire. There was nothing immediately unique about his wardrobe except that the items were on the finer side.

But Clarice could feel it. Something more binding than fabric clung to the musty elegance of the fibers. It directed her to turn her head countless times to look back at the Opera Garnier slipping out of sight through the back window.

"And beyond the lake, what did you find?"

Christine shifted. Her eyes came up ever so slightly, and Clarice could see the tightly-suppressed pain behind her mask of indifference.

"Nothing," she quickly said. She eased her still-bleeding hand underneath the blanket. "Whoever he was…was gone long before I got there. The mob found nothing."

Christine turned her face back towards the window and closed her eyes.

Raoul did not press the matter and silence fell as the carriage continued to roll through the dark streets, its wheels splashing through unseen puddles.

"How long can this last?" Clarice looked up, startled, at Raoul's sudden question, not comprehending. He looked down at his hands in his lap. "How—how could I have done such a thing? I promised to keep her safe and instead I…how could I have forced her into such a situation?"

Clarice was about to mention that he had no business talking about Christine as if she weren't even there. Then she realized that such an assumption wasn't too far from the truth.

"You mustn't rest the full blame on yourself, Raoul. He was her Angel of Music, her entire world. She had to leave eventually, and the parting would inevitably have been painful." _But it wasn't Erik's fault either. They were all three unwitting pawns of another. A figure lurking unobtrusively in the shadows, anonymous to the world._ And for the briefest moment, Clarice felt a rush of pure hatred.

Raoul swallowed and his Adam's apple moved behind the angry red welt across his throat. "Painful, but not murderous. Cassandra," he pleaded, "I don't know what to do. I have every reason to hate the Phantom. And I do…I curse his name, but not for the reasons that I would like."

His jaw went rigid as he turned despairing eyes toward the silent girl sitting across from them. His voice was hushed. "Look at her, those are no tears of hate. Or fear. I cried those same tears when my mother drew her last breath. How can you hate someone who leaves when one needs them the most?" He fell silent, his eyes unfocused. And then he blinked a few times and shook himself, as if he were waking from a trance. "Forgive me, I don't know what I'm saying. Pay me no mind."

"Raoul." Clarice waited as he turned to face her. "You say that you don't know what to do. Look…the woman you love is crying from grief. What do you _think _you should do?"

The vicomte looked. He dropped his eyes and shifted uncomfortably. Then he took a deep breath and half-stood, crossing the narrow length of the cab to sit beside Christine. Ever so slowly, he placed his hands on her shoulders, gently, as if she might break.

"Christine…" he said, clumsily, nervously, like a boy holding a girl for the first time. She leaned ever so slightly against him and he put his arm around her, smoothing her hair with one hand. "Shh," he said as her shoulders began to tremble, "I'm here," he murmured as he wiped the tears from her cheeks.

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The black carriage pulled up before the wrought-iron gates of the de Londres estate. The figure of a woman descended from it, shaking her head and pushing away the arm of a young man who attempted to assist her.

Every bit the Duchesse de Londres, Clarice Starling stepped from the carriage with as much dignity as a sodden aristocrat wearing a set of purloined men's eveningwear could manage. In the rain her hair was soaked again in no time.

She turned to speak with the young man; she spoke for a long time, shaking her head determinedly. Then she stepped back as the carriage pulled away with a wave of water. When they were gone, her shoulders, which she had previously held up so carefully, fell to her sides as she shivered from more than cold.

Turning to the gates, she fumbled for her key with clumsy fingers and the gates rattled like metallic bones in her grasp. Looking up at the nearest window on the house, she saw a flash of candlelight but when she blinked it was gone.

"Heavens above! What has happened to you, madam?" Mariana ran towards her employer with a towel, taking in her ragged appearance and sodden clothes with astonishment. She did not expect the Duchess to pull back from her roughly.

"Is the Duke home?"

"Ye-es, I believe so—"

"Good. In that case, please go to your room," she said. "I will be fine, Mariana," she added, her eyes softening at the maid's stricken expression. She considered the other woman for a moment: her round face and bright, childlike eyes. Mariana was one of their most faithful servants, having been with them since they had first arrived in Paris. She deserved better than them. Clarice drew herself abruptly upright and strode off without looking back.

The main hallway of the Fell mansion was tastefully lit with candles that illuminated the portraits of fictional ancestors lining either side of the corridor; they burned at just the right height to produce a healthy glow while avoiding overexposure. The walls and furniture scattered at regular intervals along the corridor were in colors of dark wood and burnished gold. It was an image of perfect elegance…like a museum, a place to observe but never live in.

Clarice strode through the corridor, leaving dark water stains on the carpet with every step. She hesitated for the briefest instant before the door at the end, and then she reached for the knob and pushed the door open without knocking.

Hannibal Lecter was playing Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu upon the piano and did not miss a beat as he heard the door suddenly open and his wife storm into the study, closing the door behind her. He reached the end of the first fast tempo section and languidly eased into the slower, more lyric, middle section. Her voice came from behind him, low and dangerously calm.

"I hope you're happy now."

He continued playing. Her voice grew louder as she came closer. "Did you even care, at the beginning, what could happen? Are you truly still the man you were seven years ago?"

His right hand played through a weeping diminished scale as he finally spoke. "How can you blame me? It was not I who pursued the Phantom in his own cellars like some overzealous detective, _Clarice_. I can hear the water dripping from your clothes…did you fall into the lake?"

"I was trying to fix what you had started!"

His fingers fell still over the keys, although he still did not turn to look at her. He could sense her terrible anger radiating from her like waves of pain. Lovely. "Did it ever occur to you were not needed? That what I—as you allege—started was nothing more than an acceleration to an inevitable conclusion?"

Clarice walked to the left side of the piano, following his eyes. She was amazed at how he could avoid looking at her without ever turning his head. "That night of the masked ball, you remember…you told Raoul that Christine had gone home…although you knew otherwise. You knew that she would meet Erik, you _knew_ it. And you knew the terrible consequences if she were to return to him. And yet you allowed it; you _encouraged_ it. Why?"

"Because she had a choice to make. And she had to avoid any distractions."

"And the man who loves her is a distraction?"

"How quickly you jump to conclusions. I was under the impression that—"

"You—what could you know? You've not been to the Opera since then and—"

"Is that my fault? I thought you were doing a fine job on your own and had no need for my assistance."

Clarice opened her mouth. She closed it again. _Oh that infuriating man_…

Hannibal Lecter turned to face her, and Clarice looked into his visage. She admired the way his rigid cheeks and unblinking eyes masked his emotions far more effectively than the mask currently pressing against her bosom ever could.

Her voice was barely a hiss and thick with disgust. "I said it before and I say it again now, because not a single thing has changed. It's always been a game for you, hasn't it? Your decision is always right, and you manipulate others to play it out, no matter what might happen to them."

"Well, I would say if that were true—you would already be dead, Clarice."

A slight bit of color drained from her cheeks, but her voice remained steady. "Even if you were right. Even if Christine merely needed some encouragement to make her realize her true feelings, it did not have to come to this. They nearly died, Hannibal, all three of them. And their blood would have been on your head. But that—." _But that would not trouble a murderer_. She did not say it, but she knew he understood.

"You give me too much credit, my dear," he said in a low growl. "I hardly asked them to try and kill each other."

"You could have stopped it and you didn't. You know Erik far better than you're letting on, Hannibal. You knew what he would do. You knew from our very first day at the Opera."

"And supposing I did." He seemed ready to say more but hesitated. He turned suddenly in his seat and pointed at the score upon the music stand. "Do you see this piece? It is Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu, a piece not printed until after his death."

"I'm in no mood for riddles, Hannibal."

"You seem to understand nothing else. Chopin refused to publish this piece. He felt it was too different and too radical for the time. He commanded that it be destroyed after his death. This piece survived only because his friend disobeyed his command and printed it. He saw the beauty in what the composer feared to reveal, and the beauty lived on because his friend did what Chopin could not."

"A person's _life_ is hardly comparable to a piece of music."

"Considering your vast amount of musical knowledge, I am inclined to disagree. What do you have hidden there?"

Clarice's heart jerked in her chest and she looked down…to see the pieces of parchment protruding from her waistband. "Oh these…these are all that I was able to save."

Hannibal took them in his hand and arranged the slightly-damp pages casually upon the music stand over the Chopin. "These are concept pages for an opera. Although it is no opera that I have seen before…"

"_Don Juan Triumphant_?"

Hannibal's lips curled up in a smile. "Is that what he named it? He always did have a sense of humor." He touched the ivory piano keys lightly, his eyes skimming over the musical bars.

"You see, musical pieces are generally written in a certain key. There are a set number of sharps and flats, a limit to the accidentals…" his fingers moved effortlessly over the piano, his voice now as soothing and detached as a teacher's, "…so the chords sound comforting and 'right'. This…masterwork, is written in no single key, but a conglomeration of everything music has to offer; it is music stripped down to its raw power. It shows no mercy for the listener, beautiful scales are combined and grate the senses when layered together in polytonality. Recapitulations of the main theme are never the same, and there is no sense of finality, no sense of release when it is over. The conclusion leaves you torn and empty inside; this is no happy creation."

With his right hand, Hannibal lazily picked out an echoing whole-tone melody. Abruptly, his left hand began a brutal, pounding bass accompaniment, making the ivory keys of the piano hum and scream in their dance. Clarice stared, mouth half-open, as her husband seemed to come to life for the first time in nearly a year. Just as soon as it had begun, the torrent of music stopped. He sighed as he laid a reverent hand over the sheets of music before him. "Nor should it be a happy piece."

It was the most emotion Clarice had heard in his voice for many months…But he was speaking to the music, not to her.

He did not look at her as he leaned back upon his bench, inclining his head towards the glass doors that led from the study into the gardens behind the house. "Come in, my friend, your presence has long ceased to be a secret."

Clarice whirled around. She saw a shadow detach itself from the dark night. The gigantic bay window swung open soundlessly before its approach and the growl of thunder and pounding rain could be heard until the window closed once again.

Even though they were shut off from the storm, Clarice felt the ambient temperature in the room drop by several degrees. Soaked in rainwater and with his chin tucked against his throat, the visitor still remained a charged and imposing presence. The tension between the two silent men, though not apparently hostile, was so thick that she felt as if she were suffocating.

Then Hannibal stood up from the piano bench in one fluid motion. His maroon eyes flared in recognition and a smile of mixed familiarity and suspicion floated across his features.

"Erik. I was wondering when you would pay us a visit."

"Hannibal Lecter." Erik dipped his head slightly in mock deference, even as his eyes darkened. "Or do you still prefer Arthur Fell?"

Hannibal took one step forward. Erik remained immobile. "No, Erik," he said. "I believe you earned the right to my true name many years ago. I apologize for my deception, but I assure you it was necessary."

Erik stiffened, and then he began to laugh. "You…would apologize for deception…to _me_. Forgive me, Hannibal, but words quite…fail me…" his laughter turned into a ragged cough and he leaned against the wall, wheezing and bringing a hand to his throat.

Clarice made as if to move towards him, stopping when Erik took a step back to press himself closer to the wall. Hannibal stood still. "What has brought you to this, my friend?" His voice was quiet and verging upon sorrow.

Erik coughed once more. "The love of a woman…my friend," and at this his eyes darted from Hannibal to Clarice in one quick motion, his expression unreadable. He laughed shortly. "The love of a woman…" Then he took a step away from the wall and fell to the carpet face-first.

Hannibal and Clarice looked at each other.

"Does he know?" she asked softly.

"About us? I assume the man has read his papers, otherwise he would not even know of me."

"That is no answer." She saw him turn his face away, his eyes stone once more. "Not quite the triumphant result you were expecting, my dear doctor?" He said nothing. "Very well. I will see to our guest since you seem incapable of showing common courtesy." And before Hannibal could protest she lifted Erik in her arms, her legs trembling only slightly from his weight. He was surprisingly light for his tall frame. She turned and walked out the door, shutting it behind her with a resounding snap.

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Erik awoke and opened his eyes to a burning lamp inches away from his face. He blinked away the sudden brightness and raised himself upon his elbows, discovering at the same time that he was lying upon a bed.

His sudden discomfort increased tenfold when his eyes focused enough to reveal the Duchess sitting in a chair on the other side of the room, looking at him intently. After registering his return to consciousness, her eyes returned to the book in her lap.

Erik bit back the question that first sprang to his lips and asked instead, "How long have I been out?"

"About an hour." She looked up from her book at last to see him looking at her pointedly. "I believe you suffered a chill from standing out in the rain for so long, but I don't believe it's serious."

He sighed and shifted himself to sit upon the edge of the bed. "Pity."

Clarice glared at him. "I also took the liberty of giving you something for your illness."

Erik saw the syringe next to the lamp sitting on the top of a dresser beside the bed and registered the fact that the pounding in his head had eased to a pleasant numbness. "You don't give up, do you?" No response. "I thought that Hannibal was a doctor," he continued. "Shouldn't this be his job?" The glare increased in intensity and Erik regretted his ill-timed remark.

"Unless your preternatural observational skills were damaged when you hit your head in the cellars, you would notice that our relationship is not exactly at its best," she said sarcastically. "He would have been quite content leaving you on that floor forever. I do not know your previous history with Dr. Lecter, but it doesn't seem like you parted on the best of terms."

Erik stood suddenly. "_We_ parted? He was the one that vanished from the face of the earth. It was pure luck that I even found out what happened to him."

"And what _did_ happen to him?" Clarice had risen from her seat as well; the book lay closed and forgotten on the chair.

Erik looked at her steadily, his gaze fraught with suspicion. "He spent eight years in a U.S. prison before escaping in '73. He was not heard of for seven more years. Then he murdered an Italian policeman and fled back to America. The sources don't agree about what happened then. One of their men ended up dead, Lecter vanished, and the detective assigned to track him down disappeared at the same time." He paused, watching her every expression. "Would you consider that accurate…Madame la Duchesse?"

She was silent for a long time. And then she took several steps forward until they were only standing a few feet apart. "My name is Clarice Starling," she said. "I was a former special agent in the Pinkerton Detective Agency, an organization assigned to track down the most notorious killers in America. I am now missing, presumably dead by Dr. Lecter's hand. The Londres estate and the Fell aristocracy exist only on paper."

Erik blinked his bright eyes and let her wait. Then he leaned forward in a small courteous bow. "Fondest greetings."

Something in her face shifted and she suddenly looked younger, some of the tension in her cheeks smoothed away. She walked over to a door on the side of the room and opened it. "In that case, let us see what one fugitive can offer another."

Erik followed her through the door. "What do you—?" He stopped. They were in a wide room with a low ceiling. It was lit with a single lamp that threw flickering shadows upon the dark wooden walls and there were musical instruments everywhere. A harpsichord sat next to what looked like a small family of stringed instruments. Viola and violin-shaped cases rested against a cello and enormous double bass. He could see a great black grand piano sitting in a corner like a hibernating bear and a knobbed shape next to it that he recognized as a harp. A massive wooden desk with a large armchair stood in the middle of the room. "What…?"

Clarice ran her hand over the smooth surface of the piano. "Hannibal bought all of these within a month after escaping. I can only imagine his joy, after eight years in a dungeon with the screams of the damned as his only music. But he doesn't have much use for them anymore. He doesn't have much use for anything at all now…" she stopped talking, realizing that she was saying too much. She sniffed. "Suffice it to say, he would not disapprove."

Erik shook his head. "I can't possibly—"

"And where else do you expect to go? These two rooms are yours, Erik, for as long as you choose to stay. There is only one condition."

"Of course. What would you ask of me?" He stiffened imperceptibly. "My voice? My devotion? My soul?"

Clarice bit her lip and reminded herself that the man had been through much tonight. "Nothing so crude. Hannibal and I have come to enjoy our privacy here in Paris. We would be most upset if anything happened to disturb it."

His eyes traveled over her stony face. He sighed mightily, his shoulders falling. "Madam…who would I tell?"

Her gaze softened. She nodded curtly. And quickly, before she lost her nerve, she muttered, "I am very sorry, Erik. More than you know." Then before he could respond. "Good night." She turned and shut the door rapidly behind her. The closing door snuffed out the flame in the lamp.

Erik stood silently in the room, his eyes already adjusting to the familiar blackness. He heard the steady rain beating against the windows. Christine was somewhere out there, safe from the rain and the darkness.

"Good night…" he whispered. He picked out the familiar outline of a chair and eased himself into it. "I will go gentle into that good night."

Burying his face in his hands, he realized suddenly that he was without his mask. This was the first time Hannibal had ever seen him without his mask.

He must have truly lost it if he could have nearly forgotten such a thing. But in this house where even greater secrets lived—his face was hardly the most surprising thing. He idly wondered what had happened to his mask. Shattered underneath the feet of the mob, no doubt—shards of white porcelain scattered in the ruins of his home.

He had gone from darkness to darkness again.

His head came up suddenly, staring at the closed door. Getting to his feet slowly, he walked over and took up the lamp next to the door. Bringing it back to the desk, he set it on top. The flame grew slowly, as if sensing his reluctance, but it burned. Erik sat down in the armchair next to the flame and closed his eyes. He listened to his breathing, feeling the pace of it slowing and quieting as the whirlpool of emotions began finally to settle in his mind.

He would never sleep below ground again.

END PART I


	15. Interlude

A/N: This is definitely a record for me. A week between chapters, wow. But I couldn't leave you hanging in such suspense…so I decided to add some more. --runs from enraged mob-- This chapter takes place at several points of time in the future…what sort of future, I will not say at this time. It is short and somewhat ominous. But I advise you not to make any assumptions; they might not turn out to be true.

**Chapter 15**

**Interlude**

The Londres estate was sold at an outrageous price mere hours after it was made available for auction. Few of the richest denizens of Paris could resist the convenient location of the beautiful estate. Fewer still could resist the chance to own the residence of the infamous M and Mme Fell. The aristocrats never tired of whispering about the couple's involvement in the Opera Garnier, especially the events of 1882. Police had questioned them more than once but had discovered nothing. Less than a year later the couple disappeared from Paris, presumably to return to America, pausing only to sell the estate. The population wasn't sure what to believe. They only knew that after their departure, the mysterious accidents in the Opera House stopped altogether.

The new Duke and Duchess enjoyed the attention and jealousy of their fellow aristocrats for a few years before memories began to fade. As the 20th century rolled around, people lost interest in ghosts. The new Duke watched in horror as his title became no more than a trinket of a primitive past.

One evening the newly widowed Duke was turning a pistol in his hands, when he realized he had forgotten to load the weapon. His trembling, searching fingers wandered over many places before they touched the crumpled, yellowed sheet of paper stuffed behind the cushion of his armchair. There were words in faded red ink scrawled upon the paper in what looked like a child's hand. The pistol fell from his shaking fingers as he read. He could hardly hold the paper as he stumbled to his front door and made the journey across town.

The note was auctioned off at the Opera House for a few francs less than the price for the shattered chandelier. The new Duke used his money to throw lavish parties at his estate and died a few years later a satiated if unhappy man.

The note was purchased by Comte Raoul de Chagny, who had it framed and placed in a glass case with his poster and music box. He spent nearly half of his inheritance on the purchase. He lingered for months afterwards in the elegant, empty halls of his estate, his ears straining to hear the forgotten strains of a waltz and the laughter of party guests, the sun sparkling on the Seine in a way that disguised its cold depths, the smiling blue eyes of his angel… His nurse, now the only other resident of the estate, answered his mail and peeled his fruit daily as he hung upon the tattered rags of his memories.

He listened to the music box regularly, watching the Persian monkey play its cymbals. "Will you still play, when all the rest of us are…dead?" he sang into its empty eyes night after night.

The Comte de Chagny put a pistol in his mouth the following year. He had no surviving family, and his possessions were auctioned off within a month. The music box went to a foundling hospital, where its haunting, tinny melody made the neglected children shriek with glee.

The note was cast into the Seine as a piece of rubbish. There was no one left who remembered.

Brown waters consumed the fibers of the aged, yellowed paper and rendered them quickly unreadable. The words passed out of all memory…

_I can't believe that I am doing this. For all of my miserable years of existence I have never yet succumbed to the urge to pour out my thoughts in such a crude fashion. I have hated writing for as long as I can remember. Left-handedness, after all, was the mark of the Devil. The few memories I retain of my early writing lessons are not pleasant._

_It is one thing to take out grievances on inanimate objects: God knows how many hapless pieces of furniture have fallen victim to my rages over the years. It is quite something else to see them written out so plainly and inescapably. But as I have not yet fallen so far as to consider destroying my host's furniture, I might someday forgive myself for this moment of desperation. And I can always burn the evidence any time I wish._

_Where shall I begin this pitiful excuse for a confession?_

_A child with a demon's face met with little sympathy from a world glutted with God and virtue. I will bear the scars of their righteous care for the rest of my life. But I have never known such pain as I feel now and yet I don't want it to end. A perversity of my mind refuses to let me dwell on anything but her._

_We are a match made on earth, forever suspended between heaven and hell and barred from both._

_I gladly relive her departure over and over if it means that I remember the scent of her hair, the touch of her skin. The softness of her lips. It is difficult now to curse God for making my life a living hell when I seem incapable of doing anything else._

_After the first few days—when I could think clearly once more—I noticed that by standing next to the air vent on the far wall of this chamber, I could heard everything being said in the dining room on the floor below. An absurdly simple trick of acoustics, but one that I've come to find invaluable. Did my hostess know of this?_

_I have no doubt of it._

_The "Duke and Duchess" take meals in that dining room often, and always together. Each day she casually discusses the local news—letting me know that we are safe from danger._

_They receive few visitors. The police have been here once. Clarice Starling brought the officer into the dining room and cheerfully discussed silver patterns for over an hour. The __Sûreté did not send any more men._

_It is a strange and dangerous life they have chosen to live. I escaped underground so that I would not have to live a false existence within society. They, on the other hand, revel in deception. They go to the galas, the bistros, the operas…and the world adores them. I can't help thinking that their veneer is more genuine than the pomp of other families with several generations of noble blood running through their veins._

_The image does not come without a price. The moment they walk through the doors of this house, their spirits seem to crumble. They have given so much to the public that there is none left for home. There is no tenderness here. They eat together but conversation is stiff and empty. Arguments are few, but when they happen, the servants cower and the floor beneath me trembles. I never remember the subjects of their disputes; they are overshadowed by the purity of their anger._

_I should expect it. How long could they live under the weight of their borrowed identities if they could not sometimes cast aside the burden? How long could I have lived in my masked existence if not for my music—when I could lose myself in a world more pure, with no ugliness?_

_But that world is no more. In this music room I have made no music. I have not spoken in over a month, much less lifted my voice in song. All that is left is to pour out my thoughts in this cheap and desperate manner. But I see that even now I am using eloquence to mute my despair._

_Christine…I love you. And I am dying of love._

_I both laugh and cry at the simplicity of it._

The words ended here and the paper underneath the final line of writing was scorched and blackened, as if it had been drawn quickly away from a flame. The edges of the page had remained intact through the years until now; they crumbled beneath the dark waters of the Seine and were lost in its depths.


	16. Part II: Preludes

A/N: Major thanks to Narsil for her awesome beta-reading. She will again claim that she didn't change much, but again I beg to differ. You're awesome. So, without further ado…Let the games begin…

**Part II**

****

**Chapter 16**

**Preludes**

"Erik?"

Clarice Starling, otherwise known as Cassandra Fell, La Duchesse de Londres, shifted the meal tray and the small paper-wrapped package she held as she raised her other hand to knock upon the door again. "Erik, may I come in?"

The door swung open immediately, as if startled by her touch. The room was lit by the lone low-burning lamp upon the desk.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she thought she could make out a shape in the corner slightly darker than the other shadows. She spoke to the shape. "Erik?"

She saw the shape make a quick movement upon the armchair it was sitting in, as if it were concealing something underneath the cushion. The flame in the lamp flickered. "Good afternoon." The voice was raspy from disuse, and for a moment, Clarice froze, remembering another voice: metallic and harsh and unbearably beautiful.

She shook herself. "I see that you still keep track of the time. That is fortunate."

She heard the creak of wood through the darkness and she saw the armchair turn so that its back was facing her. "Erik?"

The voice cracked like dry leaves. "Please, I do not want to impose upon you and your husband any more than I have already. Leave me be."

Clarice sighed. Still as difficult as ever. "I have not asked anything of you the entire time you have stayed here. I am asking you now to turn around and speak to me out of common courtesy."

"You do not know what you are asking."

"Erik, we've been through this before." No response. She changed her tone of voice. "_Erik_."

The armchair creaked as its occupant turned back around. He kept his head low so that the golden glow of the lamp did not disperse the shadow surrounding his face. Hunched over the desk, he looked like a dying man.

Clarice looked at him for a moment and then took two steps forward, stopping at the edge of the desk. Softly, she set the silver tray down upon the wooden surface. A simple luncheon lay upon it. The figure did not move. Clarice placed the paper-wrapped object she held in her right hand down next to the tray and slid it towards him.

He stirred, a pale hand moved forward and lifted the top layer of paper away, drawing back immediately upon discovering the contents. The head came up and the ravaged face illuminated in the lamp's glow as the lips contorted in surprise.

"Where did you get this?" Erik demanded.

"Exactly where you left it."

Yellow eyes gleamed in the shadows as they darted towards the white mask. The hand did not reappear. "And you didn't tell me? I was sure that—."

"You never asked," she retorted. "How could I tell you when the only indication that you were alive for this past month was the way the food in front of your door kept disappearing?" She tried her best to keep the sarcasm out of her voice but could tell from the look on what passed for his face that she was not succeeding. She barged ahead. "In fact, you're still not. Do you want this back or not?"

Erik sent her a withering glare that even in his weakened state made the hairs of the back of Clarice's neck crawl. The hand came back into sight and began to reach for the mask.

"Hannibal is having guests for dinner tonight."

The statement came suddenly, and Erik looked up, his hand momentarily frozen in midair. "Truly?" he said finally, his lips curling in what could have been a smile. "Or in the more socially acceptable sense?"

"I see that you know of my husband's habits."

"One cannot know Hannibal if he is not aware of the doctor's less sociable side."

Clarice gazed at him solemnly, unsure of how to respond.

"How did you meet him?" Erik asked suddenly. The hand withdrew back into the shadows.

She hesitated, weighing her options. "Why should I tell you?"

"I have been staying in your home for a month; I have not betrayed you yet."

"That was pitiful. Especially for you, Erik. I expected better."

"Very well. I have not forgotten that night in the cellars, when you invaded my home. You held a light to my face then and gazed upon me as if it were your right. One invasion of privacy deserves another."

She stayed silent. And then an expression that might have been amusement crossed her face. "Fair enough," she said curtly. She sat down in the chair across the table from him. "You are aware that Hannibal was imprisoned for the murder of nine of his patients?"

"Yes, he was arrested right before the summer of '66, I believe."

"Correct. And as he had served the sweetbreads of his victims to dinner guests, he was a…_popular_ specimen among the rest of the medical community during his incarceration. There was no shortage of people staring at him, questioning him, or _experimenting_ on him." An expression of terrible anger flashed across Erik's eyes and she noted it silently before continuing. "They learned nothing, of course, and Hannibal Lecter remained the most stubborn, enigmatic, and terrifying figure of post-war America. Naturally, he had not been the only killer operating during those chaotic times. The police discovered a new murderer in their midst: one that killed young women and skinned them before depositing them into the nearest river. They had no leads."

"And how did you get involved?"

She smiled grimly. "It takes one to know one. The local police were at their wit's end, so they contacted us. The Pinkerton Agency sent me to question Lecter, to find out if he knew anything about this new killer. So I went to the prison, armed with nothing more than a questionnaire and a stubborn spirit."

"And I suppose you made quite an impression."

"Well, he certainly wasn't impressed by the questionnaire."

"Why did he help you?"

She shrugged. "Because it amused him to do so at first. He was in prison for life. He was bored."

"And then the dark angel fell in love with the young starling." The boldness of the statement surprised even himself as Clarice looked up at him in astonishment.

"Hannibal is no angel," she scoffed at last. "He has never pretended to be either."

Erik winced. "Touché."

"For the life of a young girl I had never met, I sold my secrets, my failures, and my most painful memories to the doctor's morbid curiosity. Was it worth it?" She shrugged. "It seemed so at the time. With Dr. Lecter's help, I tracked down the murderer and killed him. This"— her hand touched the black smudge on her right cheek, feeling the hard grains embedded in her skin—"was the reminder he left."

"We call that 'courage'," Erik said.

He was rewarded with a small smile. "Few people recognize it anymore. And the ones that do…" she trailed off and then shrugged. "Suffice it to say, the irony is sickening."

"The Agency drove you out from jealousy?"

"Oh no, they wanted nothing more than to keep me after that. Nothing better than a big name to hide behind. They had big plans to display me and use me and let me take their falls. I said thanks but no thanks."

"Wait just a moment. How did you manage to join the Agency in the first place? I doubt they would be actively hiring women."

"Well, that's a topic for another day, isn't it?" Clarice smiled sweetly. She coughed and shifted in her chair. "The guests, Erik…"

"Yes?"

"The vicomte de Chagny is taking dinner with us tonight."

"You said _guests_."

She gave him an exasperated look. "I trust your intelligence enough not to spell it out for you."

Erik scoffed even as his fists began clenching and unclenching in his lap. They were under the table, where she could not see them. "What an _eventful_ life they must be having, to not call upon their closest friends for nearly a month."

She weighed her next words carefully before deciding that saying it one way rather than another would make no difference. "They aren't married."

Erik stood up so suddenly that she shrank back in her chair. He walked over to the wall, his whole body trembling. He leaned both palms against the wall and let his head hang between his arms. "And just why are you telling me—" His veneer broke and he whirled around. "_Why not_?"

She stood. "How should I know? As you said, they haven't called on us in a month. But should you choose to join us for dinner…you know what to do."

"Ah yes, that is a simple, sneaky trick, isn't it? It does befit a wraith like me." Almost immediately Erik sighed and lowered his head, refusing to meet her eyes. "I am sorry, madam. I do not mean to be ungrateful." He fidgeted, uncomfortable. "Thank you for returning my mask. It means—"

"—Everything?"

He turned and glared at her, daring her to question, to threaten what he lived for. "Yes."

She snorted. "No, it doesn't. Not here, at least."

Erik touched his mask with barely controlled fingers and then slammed his fist into the top of the desk, some of the frustration and bewilderment that had gathered over the past month finally escaping his rigid, controlled frame. "How—how can the two of you stand to look at my face so easily? All my life—not a single person could—and then you in the cellars, you didn't even _flinch_, and Hannibal—I almost forgot the mask was missing." He looked up into her bemused face. "I'm not asking you to scream at me, it's just—How am I different now, that it is so easy to look at such ugliness?"

Clarice looked at him as she would a small child who didn't understand why people in Australia didn't walk around upside-down. "My father was a policeman," she said slowly, choosing her words with care. " He had the bad fortune of surprising two burglars who didn't want to go to prison. They shot him twice: once in the head, once right above the heart. Somehow he found his way home to die in my arms. I kissed his shattered skull as he drew his last breath. I was eight years old."

She paused until the tickling sensation behind her eyes ceased. "That was not ugliness. Ugliness was the town he gave his life for taking back his badge because it cost them seven dollars. It's being blamed by an incompetent agency for the death of your best friend. Or being used as expendable bait for the most dangerous killer in the America without your knowledge." She smiled wryly as she looked at him once more. "Compared to that, your face is hardly my greatest fear. Not everyone is afraid of you, Erik. Not even some that you thought were." She shrugged. "Wear the mask if you wish, if you are convinced that you would die without it. But I must say that you've been doing admirably for the past month without it."

Erik had ducked his head again, allowing the shadows of the room to creep across his face like a living mask. "You speak very freely today, duchess," he said.

"That would be because you are the only person in this house who doesn't act like I'm talking to a brick wall."

"And I thought you enjoyed my company."

"I enjoy all my company. If I didn't, I would have nothing to do with them."

"Your husband is remarkably indulgent about letting you choose your own companions."

"Who is speaking freely now?" she asked with a sly smile. "We have both been through far too much together. Did you think he would feel threatened by you staying with us?" Clarice smirked, but beneath her sarcasm, Erik heard something brittle in her voice. "Just as there is nothing conventional about our story, he knows that nothing conventional can threaten us." She smiled grimly. "Nothing but he himself."

"But—"

"See you at dinner, Erik." She turned to go, smoothing out the folds of her dress, her hand lingering at her waist. She walked out of the door without looking back, leaving the Phantom alone once more.

After a few minutes, he reached forward and took the sandwich from the tray. The mask lay untouched upon the desk. He nibbled at the bread, and for the first time in a long time, he remembered the taste of food.

------------------

"What do you suppose young Mary was thinking when she wrote her ghost story?"

"What?" Clarice asked incredulously, propriety forgotten as Christine spoke for the first time that evening. Dinner had been an utter and complete failure. She and Hannibal had sat together on one side and the young couple had sat right across from them. The empty ends of the long table stretched off on both sides like the edges of a cliff, with the four of them huddled together with the awkwardness of strangers at the center for safety.

No one knew of what to speak. No one wanted to speak of what they wanted to know. And always there was the knowledge of who was listening…imagining his agonized waiting for a word, for anything that would let him know that Christine was actually there.

The food had turned to ashes in her mouth and after the waiter took away their untouched desserts, Raoul had mentioned casually, his words piercing the silence like a gunshot, whether Dr. Lecter would enjoy some after-dinner conversation in his study. Without missing a beat, Clarice had suggested that Christine might like to see the library to pass the time as the men bantered.

They went their separate ways, and now Christine was thumbing through an original 1818 edition of _Frankenstein_, and Clarice had nothing to do but watch.

"What do you mean?" she said at last.

Christine flipped to a page in the middle of the novel and read. "'Behold the sorrow born of dreams…' What could have made her think of such sadness? She shared a cabin with Lord Byron and her future husband Percy Shelley. She was the daughter of literary legends. She was 17 years old." She crossed over to a leather armchair and sat down heavily, leafing slowly through the pages. "I used to wonder how someone so young could already understand such sorrow."

Clarice remained silent, unsure of what to say, and unwilling to interrupt this strange confession.

Christine put the book down in her lap and sat back in the chair. She looked towards the library entrance. "They are talking about me, are they not?"

"They are worried," Clarice said softly. "As am I. He loves you tremendously, my dear."

The young woman bit her lip. "I can't help them," she whispered. "They would never understand. I still don't understand myself why he…" she trailed off, shaking her head, the faraway look returning to her eyes as she lifted the book in her hands again.

Clarice had not specified who "he" was. The singer's immediate response confirmed her suspicions and she sighed. It was not over, and it would never be over.

But for now Christine was engrossed in the novel, riveted by the tale of the most miserable man on earth. She did not look as if she would mind if Clarice slipped out, unnoticed.

The Duchess de Londres closed the door softly behind her, and, after glancing about to make sure no one would see, raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

-----------------

Erik whirled around like a guilty child as the door flew open and Clarice Starling entered the room without knocking. She noted with disappointment that he was wearing the mask once more. It was the porcelain side of his face that was turned toward her now, so she couldn't see his jaw clench as she moved to stand right beside him, pressing her ear against the far side of the vent. He could see each individual lash on her wide, eager eyes.

He could hardly speak from the shock. "Madam, what—?"

"Shhhh," she said, obviously not noticing his discomfort. Through the vent she could hear Raoul's voice say, "Monsieur, I'm not sure how to say this."

Dr. Lecter: "You may speak freely, monsieur. There is no one here but us."

_He knew they were listening_. Clarice frowned a bit at this realization but quickly snapped back to attention as Raoul's voice floated up through the vent.

Raoul: "I—well, I'm sure you know now why I have come."

Dr. Lecter: "I do not like to assume, monsieur."

Raoul: "Christine, monsieur. You must notice her…condition."

Guided by premonition, Clarice looked up from her place next to the wall to see Erik begin to tremble, his hands opening and closing into fists. She fought a sudden urge to put her hand on his arm. Gradually, he calmed as the voices continued to speak, his curiosity overriding other embedded emotions.

Raoul: "She never smiles. She speaks, but of trivial commonplace things. She cries herself awake from her bad dreams. Sometimes I don't recognize her anymore and…I suppose there is no easy way of saying it. I did a bad thing, monsieur. A very bad thing. And now I wish to make amends."

If Dr. Lecter was affected in any manner by Raoul's description, his voice did not betray it but that he seemed to pause a little bit longer than normal before he spoke.

Dr. Lecter: "Tell me, Raoul. What makes you trust your dearest love to my care?"

Raoul: "I…you are a doctor, monsieur. And I consider you my friend. If I am mistaken, I would prefer to know right now."

Dr. Lecter: "Ah, there will be no need of that. I just want to be sure, that you know what you are asking. By giving your fiancée treatment, you will publicly admit that there is something abnormal about her. People will talk. You will be ostracized."

Raoul: "She's not my fiancée. And I would prefer that no one knew of this arrangement. Though I would care nothing for their rejection anyway. Christine is all that matters. She has…no one left. I will not leave her now."

Dr. Lecter: "Then I believe you have just hired my services."

Erik started, the pressure of the emotional dagger that had just plunged so cruelly into his chest gone just as suddenly as she saw Clarice jerk back from the vent. The look on her face nearly frightened him. In her eyes was the same furious, unhinged look that he recognized from his days in Persia. It was what he saw when he forced himself to look into a mirror after providing the most recent amusing death for the khanum. He would have rather not remembered.

"How dare he? After what…How fucking _dare_ he?"

Erik was pretty confident that he knew to what she was referring, but for what reasons he could only guess.

"I'll kill him," Clarice continued. "I'll kill him myself."

"The way that…Christine is right now. I don't believe that it could hurt."

Clarice whirled upon him, her hands already trembling from emotion. "Erik, please believe that I know him far better than you ever will. He…" she sighed, her hands falling down by her sides. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I should not be taking this out on you. It's been a difficult day for you and that is mostly my fault. I will leave you in peace now."

She turned to go. Erik reached out and caught her arm.

She froze. Her eyes darted downwards in a jerky, unrefined plunge and the world narrowed to the feel of his hand. The sensation of it through the fabric of her dress was like ice wrapped in the finest velvet: a bone-chilling lightness.

"No Clarice, I…I thank you. For everything," Erik said. He looked into her eyes, genuine emotion in the unmasked portion of his face. A long moment passed and then he suddenly seemed to notice. He muttered unintelligibly before lowering his hand…his fingers brushing ever so lightly against her waist before falling away. As she watched, the hand curled itself into a trembling fist. Erik looked down, no longer meeting her gaze, and turned away.

She blinked. Infinite possible reactions screamed through her mind and she felt as if confusion would burst through her skull. Making an inarticulate sound in her throat, she turned and stumbled out of the room, closing the door noisily behind her.

Erik did not move as he heard the noise of her footsteps die away. Silence reigned. Dr. Lecter and the vicomte had finished speaking downstairs. He waited at least half an hour more before finally uncurling his right fist, spreading his long fingers in a star-shaped pattern.

He gently uncrumpled the scrap of paper resting on his palm and smoothed it out. The words upon it had been written recently and the ink was slightly smudged from being pressed against the waistband of her dress. He smiled beneath the mask as he turned up the oil lamp and began to read.


	17. Nocturnes

A/N : And we're back! IMPORTANT: I've added one last sentence to the end of Chapter 14. It is rather important to see…draw what conclusions from it you will. ;) Also, I've decided to take a leaf from Webber's book and engage in a bit of self-plagiarizing. A large portion of the garden scene in this chapter comes from another epic of mine that I wrote with a friend: Labyrinth of the Burning Heart. You can find it under the penname "Labyrinth" on this site if you are at all interested. Without further ado, on with the chapter!

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Chapter 17

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Nocturnes

Dr. Hannibal Lecter set his cupful of hot tea on his desk to cool when the door to his study opened with the force of a gale wind. He steadied the cup with one hand, even as he felt Clarice move up to his desk with all the warmth of a midwinter blizzard.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" Her voice matched her temper with chilling precision.

"Pouring myself some tea, as you can see."

"Do _not_ play games with me right now, it could be hazardous to your health. All I know is that in one hour Christine Daae is going to walk in here for an hour's worth of _therapy_ with you. Now you just tell me what you think you're doing."

"I believe you listened quite closely to the conversation."

She snorted. "You don't _heal_ people out of the goodness of your heart and you don't hire yourself out to the whims of lovesick fools."

"People change."

Clarice did not miss the gleam in his eyes as he said this. She rose to the bait anyways. "No they don't. You're still the same"—her hand touched the edges of the teacup, "_creature_"—fingers wrapped around the porcelain in a bloodless grip, "you were seven years ago." With a sweep of her arm, she sent the teacup crashing into a nearby armoire. The porcelain vessel shattered on impact and the hot liquid hissed as it ate into the fine wood.

Any other onlooker would have been stunned. Any other husband would have been outraged by this seemingly indiscriminate act of temper. But Hannibal Lecter let his eyes travel downwards to the white shards now littering the carpet, some with traces of tea leaves still clinging to the edges. He said nothing, but Clarice was not fooled; she could feel the air around him solidifying with rage.

"You never did like tea," she said in a trembling voice. "But that didn't matter, all that mattered was proving that you were right. And for that you ignored everything, even the fact that you couldn't stand the smell of tea leaves. They reminded you too much of your home." She saw his hands begin to clench and unclench and for the second time in less than twenty-four hours she fought the absurd desire to reach out in comfort. "Look at them, Hannibal. Watch them until your eyes fall from their _sockets_, they will never collect themselves and reassemble, they will never turn back the clock. Your sister remains _dead_. I remain…as I am now, and you cannot change it."

His voice was like a volcano about to erupt, yet ever so quiet. "I have killed…no, made people wish they were dead for far less than that."

"Then do it now." Clarice pulled her hair away from her neck, exposing her pale throat. "Go on. I know you've lost none of your strength. And our guest cannot hear anything that occurs in this room."

He stood slowly from his chair, a fluid motion akin to a cobra unfurling its hood. "What are you doing, Clarice? What is the meaning of this…_game_?"

"Just this. If you thought for one minute that I would stand idly by while you put this young girl through the same torment you did me, you're very much mistaken. I will fight you with everything I have, and you know more than anyone what I am capable of."

The cobra struck with lightning speed and with the lightness of a kiss. Clarice gasped as a column of fire seemed to race up her spine and strained to escape from this invisible grip. Dr. Lecter restrained her with one hand, holding her firmly against his chest as his other hand hovered right beneath her skull, his fingers resting against the hollow with deceptive lightness. He pushed upward. Clarice squirmed.

His voice caressed her ear like liquid satin. "The crown/meridian pressure point, Clarice. A moderate amount of directed pressure will induce approximately twenty minutes of unconsciousness. Heavy pressure…" he sighed. "Let's just say that it's best to be careful."

Her neck was beginning to burn from its state of suspension and black dots swam before her eyes. Her world reduced to his voice in her ear.

"And now that I have an attentive audience, I shall tell you…you are correct, I could very well destroy our young songbird. She certainly hasn't far to go. But what would be the value of that? If you can't believe in my capacity for selflessness then how about my taste for…shall I say, amusement?" His fingers moved over the faint bruise already forming on her skin. "I have always been fascinated with pain, this you know. Yours, Clarice, was sweet intoxication. But one need not cause pain to enjoy it…you know of what I speak. Do the slaughtered lambs …the innocents you could not save, still plague your dreams? No, I thought not…I did that Clarice…I caused them to scream and then I caused them to disappear. Pain is like the sweetest wine when drawn from a wound. Will you take the chance with me? You did once, after all, ah Clarice…how I remember."

His fingers moved away from the pressure point on her skull and he sighed again softly, his breath stirring the tiny hairs on her neck as he kissed the bruised skin tenderly.

With a single, deft motion that originated from her days with the Agency, she twisted away from him and left his empty hands still hanging in the air. Her face was strangely flushed as the darkness receded from her vision. She put one hand to the back of her head.

He could tell from her pursed lips that there were many things she desperately wanted to say, and he waited to see what she would unleash upon him first. She could still be so unpredictable…he felt something like an old flame stirring within him.

"I will be watching," she said finally. Then she brushed past him and slammed the door.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Christine had once seen an old fortune-teller in a traveling show with her father. She was five years old and her father had taken her by the hand and led her to an old and weather-beaten tent. She remembered the trepidation when she peered inside and peered past the smoke and bits of colored glass dangling upon strings to the mysterious figure. The old man was wrapped in brightly colored cloth, smelled like dusty herbs, and was staring most reverently into a smoky crystal ball he held in fingers resembling bleached claws.

She had felt fear, wonder, awed curiosity, and a bit of ridiculous mirth. And this was how she felt now as she sat in an armchair so large that it almost swallowed her petite form—staring across the desk at Monsieur Fell. Except that this time, there was not a trace of amusement in her mind.

Christine found her gaze drawn to the doctor's hands as he carefully organized the papers upon his desk. They looked nothing like the Phantom's – fleshed out and tanned as they were – and yet in the way they moved, the fluid grace of his fingers, every movement deliberate, she couldn't help drawing a comparison. She continued to stare until he must have noticed and folded his hands upon the table.

It was then that she noticed the absence of a wedding ring on his hand. But surely…perhaps he did not wear it at home…but whyever not? The inexplicable mystery would have to wait, however, for he suddenly moved his hands, quite aware of her gaze, and cleared his throat.

Oh God, he was going to speak…what would he ask? What would he demand that she tell him? Did she have the strength to refuse him? She had heard his voice only briefly the other day at dinner, but she remembered its dark and warm timbre, a tone that brooked no argument.

"Mademoiselle…" She took a nervous breath and then looked up to meet his eyes. And was stunned to see him smiling at her without a trace of inquisitiveness or inquiry. "My wife planted some beautiful gardens on the eastern side of this house. Perhaps you would like to see them?"

"I…" Her prepared response jammed in her throat. "That would be nice," she said at last. 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 

Dr. Hannibal Lecter watched a giggling Christine Daae run about on the paths of the garden with a warm intensity that did not broach his neutral expression. Something about the way she laughed, a smile utterly transforming her wan, drawn face, her eyes filling with a healthy glow and wisps of hair clinging to her full cheeks. It stirred the air in corridors of his memory palace he thought long ago abandoned. He sighed and sat down upon a stone bench and let Christine run her heart out. The talking would come later, when she was ready.

Christine ran between hedges and flowerbeds, breathless with joy, losing count of the number of times she stopped and turned to reexamine the newest flowerbed. The garden was obviously well-tended, yet none of the arrangements were forced or misplaced. The blossoms were allowed to spill over onto the path and seemed only to be restrained by their willingness to allow observers passage through their maze of color and thorns. The sheer abundance of colors reflected in her eyes like so many gemstones. Azure blue, flaming red, pearl white, golden yellow, and rich maroon. She reached out to touch a bed of peach carnations with their edges stained blood red and stopped when she thought of the doctor sitting only a few rows away. He could not see her through the hedges, but something told her that he would know anyway. Which is why she jumped out of her skin when his voice came from right behind her.

"Go on. I am quite certain they would not object."

She watched him bend down with fluid grace and pluck one of the peach roses out of the ground without ever disturbing the soil. With a deft motion of his fingers, he snipped off the bottom of the stem, leaving about four centimeters attached to the blossom. He gestured for her to come towards him.

"May I?"

She did not resist as he slipped the flower into her dark chestnut hair and tucked it behind her ear to hold it in place. He stepped back to look at his handiwork and smiled. "Now all we need is another blossom of a suitably darker color and you'll look like a proper harlequin."

Laughter escaped Christine's lips before she could contain it, and she clapped her hands to her mouth, looking mortified that such a sound should have come from her. Her eyes flashed with anguish.

Dr. Lecter took a sip of her pain and found it exquisite. With a sigh, he released it. "Mme Daae, you are certainly welcome to smile whenever you wish."

Her eyes went wide and then she nearly laughed again. "No, it's not that I don't—it's just, I mean, it's been—I'm not making any sense am I?"

"You might if you slowed down and finished your sentences," Dr. Lecter said, his eyes laughing.

Christine stared. And then she allowed another smile to play across her lips, this time not stifling it. They had walked around the hedge by then and she sat down upon the nearby bench. "It's strange, you're not at all as I expected, monsieur Fe—doctor."

"And what did you expect?"

Her face twisted. "An elegant room. Low lighting from candles. Your formless voice coming out of the dark in a disgusting attempt to hypnotize me."

He arched his head to one side and made his play. "You mean to say that you did not enjoy that?"

She frowned. "I don't—"she went pale as understanding dawned.

He watched her carefully. This would determine whether she would ever trust him again. Her mouth was half-open with outrage, the edges of her lips white. Her eyes, until one minute ago so lifeless and pale, blazed like an inferno. He watched anger, confusion, fear, and a grudging hint of respect pass through them in the blink of a second.

She swallowed. "How did you…?" She stopped and shook her head. "No, I shouldn't even bother asking. For that is why Raoul sent me to you, is it not? So you could get inside my head…that's all they want to do, all they ever wanted to do…"

She lowered her head. Dr. Lecter could see that she was retreating back inside herself. He knelt quickly besides her, positioning himself in her peripheral vision, so she could easily look away if she wished. He looked at the tempting curve of her arm…the limb was so thin, the blue veins prominent against the pale skin, it looked as if it would break should he even touch it. He placed his hand on the bench.

"Mademoiselle…" Her head turned like a marionette's toward the sound of his voice. "I am not here to reduce you to a set of influences. Your lover may have his own ideas about what I do, but let me tell you myself."

"He's not—"

"I am not a magician, nor am I a magic pill that will cure your mind and make everything as if it never was. I am here to listen, and I am here to help you see things you would refuse to otherwise. I am your guide, Christine, not your doctor, and you are not a diseased patient." The young woman's eyes had been growing wider and wider as he spoke. He reached forward and touched the blossom in her hair lightly and then finally asked, "Will that work for you?"

Christine stared. Her mouth opened, and then closed again. She looked down at her hands in her lap, her thoughts twisting upon each other in her mind.

In the end, it was the light pressure of the rose against her temple that did it. Like the softest touch to a trembling set of scales, the presence of the flower reminded her of another set of eyes…dark brown rather than maroon, smiling warmly as the owner lowered the violin to pick up the proffered blossom before turning to place it in the flowing locks of his little angel…

She swallowed and looked at him, kneeling patiently by her side, waiting for her answer. "Thank you for the rose," she said finally.

He finally reached out then, covering her small hand in his own. His palm was warm and dry, like snakeskin. "I shall see you in a few days, Christine," he said simply.

Shifting her gaze to look out at the garden once more, she nodded.

"Very well then," he continued, his voice now clipped and professional. "I believe that brings us to the end of our session. If you would be so kind as to join me in the dining room? There are just a few papers that we need to go over."

As Christine got to her feet, she saw him reach over to a nearby flowerbed and pluck a blood red rose from the soil, motes of dirt clinging for dear life to the threadlike roots. She realized then just how close to the house the gardens were. The bench they had been sitting upon was a mere foot away from the eastern wall of the mansion. As she watched, he placed the rose on a windowsill, tipping his head slightly at the unseen occupant inside, a sardonic smile crossing his lips. Then he turned and offered her his arm. After only a moment's hesitation, she took it. 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 

Erik was drawn to the vent by a sound he had not heard in months. And longer still since it had come from the sweet throat he recognized now. He listened, hardly daring to breathe, as Christine and Dr. Lecter walked into the dining room downstairs and sat down, she laughing…barely audible, but _laughing_.

He had nearly forgotten the beautiful sound of her happiness. True, the joy in her voice was frail and tentative, and nervous, like a snowflake smiling at the spring sun. Oh but even so…

Her voice faded away as she and the doctor finished whatever business they had in the dining room. Erik instinctively turned towards the door to follow her presence. He had taken two steps when the attack hit.

This was no crushing pressure around his chest, although he would have much preferred that to the bruising ache and prickling sensation that pulsated through the crook of his right elbow. He swayed on his feet, resting an arm on the desk.

Had it been that long already?

He had noticed two weeks ago that the minimal supply of morphine that he had on his person was running low. Since then he had tried to modulate his intake, until he only needed an injection once every few days.

But it had only been two days this time…and this time he knew he did not have more.

A dozen hot needles jabbed into his arm again, running up along the vein towards his heart. He wrapped his arms around his chest in a bruising grip and closed his eyes, doing his best to ignore it.

Christine's voice was gone. 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 

Hannibal Lecter waved once at Christine Daae's departing form before closing the front door. Their second session had taken place a mere four days after the first and had gone equally well. They had spoken of many things and when their time was over she had remembered none of them. But she had left with an inexplicable sense of contentment, exactly as he intended.

Now he walked through the hallway lined with portraits of ancestors who had never lived and entered his study. The cup of tea was still there where he had left it after the session was over. He sat down next to the delicate porcelain vessel with the agility of a cat.

Dr. Lecter blew on the tea and took one sip. Still too hot. He set the cup down on the desk and leaned back in his chair. Slowly, almost lazily his eyes slid up the wall to move across the ceiling. He pursed his lips, considering.

Then he stood from the bench and walked easily out the door and went up the stairs. He opened the door without knocking in time to see Erik tearing the top drawer out of the bedside dresser.

The other man looked up in mixed shock and embarrassment as he entered. Dr. Lecter leaned against the doorjamb. "Are you looking for something?" he asked as calmly as if he had just dropped by for dinner.

Erik's tongue seemed to have welded to the roof of his mouth. "I…" The blind adrenaline that had fueled his mad hunt was gone now and he felt his hands trembling. The drawer slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor in a clatter of wood.

"Yes?" said Dr. Lecter, his expression unchanging.

His vision must have been going with his sanity, Erik could have sworn that the doctor's eyes were glowing red. He doubled over as another bout of nausea squeezed his insides into jelly.

When he could see once again, he was staring up at the ceiling and Dr. Lecter's face hovered above his face. The doctor's hand was on his forehead, his touch fiery hot. He drew his hand away slowly as Erik pulled himself into a sitting position.

Dr. Lecter stood where he was for a moment, staring hard at Erik, who dropped his gaze to the floor. Dr. Lecter turned abruptly and walked out the door. He returned a few minutes later holding a syringe of clear liquid.

"As a host," he said, handing the syringe to Erik, who accepted it wordlessly, "I cannot deny my guest. As a doctor I refuse to see you in pain."

Erik rolled the syringe in his fingers, feeling the familiar ache digging screwdrivers into the crook of his elbow. "And as Hannibal Lecter?"

He smiled grimly. "I am disgusted by your weakness and would cheerfully cut out every single vein in your body if Clarice would not murder me for doing so."

Erik wasn't sure whether to laugh or shudder. Dr. Lecter's eyes were dark and unamused. "I hope you picked up more useful habits during your time in Persia as well."

"Well…you didn't stay around to find out."

Dr. Lecter took a step back, his eyes disbelieving. "What shall I say, Erik? 'I apologize for being captured like a common criminal?' How you picked up the mistaken notion of my omnipotence…I know not. But _you_ of all people should know better." He turned to go.

"Wait," said Erik, reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket, emboldened by something he could not describe. His hand emerged holding a folded piece of paper. "This…you should see this."

The doctor looked at the proffered token suspiciously. "And what, pray tell, is this?"

"The truth." And without giving him a chance to comprehend, Erik tossed the paper into the air between them.

Dr. Lecter caught it effortlessly before clenching his fist tightly around it. "If you think that I would stoop to pawing through her private—"

"If you would prefer, you may ask her yourself." Erik saw Hannibal regarding him with a look of utter contempt and it was not until he remembered the weight of the object in his hand that he remembered why.

"This changes nothing." Dr. Lecter stuffed the crumpled piece of paper into his suit pocket and turned to go once again. "Doctor's orders. Take your medicine, Erik. Yet another thing you cannot live without." The click of the closing door announced his departure.

With his presence gone, Erik felt the throbbing sensation in his arm double and his hand began to shake. He set the needle against his skin and hesitated for an eternal second before plunging it into his flesh.

The needle on the syringe broke against the wall as he hurled the object away as hard as he could.

His self-disgust crawled away on little feet of darkness as the sensation rushed through him. It felt different this time…he could not feel any warmth in his veins, but instead a blood-bruising rush of _something_ that soared up his spine and threw open all the doors of his mind like a gust of wind.

He stood up suddenly and laughed into the dark room. There were musical notes floating in the darkness that was no longer dark at all but bathed in a bright black light. The notes had ragged edges and their stems were sharp knives and from each hung a little picture. He could see himself in some of them, dark, lurking figures in others, figures he thought he had long forgotten.

In one area though, was a particularly large collection of images of an angel. He reached out towards one, brushing other notes on his way, hearing them echo and hum in his mind as he did so. She looked particularly radiant in the one he eventually took in his hand, light glistening on her dark hair and off her smiling eyes. Somehow his hand had also closed around the neck of a violin and the nearby bow. Without another thought, he raised the instrument to his chin and began to play.

One floor below, Clarice Starling stopped dead in the doorway to the dining room, a withered rose clutched in her hand. The petals were wrinkled and faded but had been blood red a mere four days ago. Another petal fell away from the blossom as the tune sank into a particularly wild chord. She did not notice but continued to listen as the violin wept moonbeams of music, unrestrained and passionate, like a flaming star plummeting from the sky to its doom.


	18. Beyond the Edge

A/N: I have returned from the dead, my unscheduled demise being the courtesy of the devils known as midterms. Also by the fact that this chapter was very difficult to write. I'm terribly sorry and shall try my best not to leave it so long between updates again, especially since I know a lot of you will think me an extremely evil person at the end of this chapter.

In regards to recent worries regarding inter-canonical romances…I shall say this: love triangles are so utterly cliched. That's why I've made a pentagon. 0-:-) Hem. Seriously though, I must say that the decision on this matter has been taken out of my hands. The characters have long since taken over this story and are taking this wherever they choose it to go. And surely you have faith in the characters?

That being said, consider yourself warned that there's some intense material towards the end of this chapter, definitely not for the squeamish.

**Chapter 18**

**Beyond the Edge**

Christine Daae awoke with a start as the remnants of the dream faded. Pulling herself into a sitting position, she could see her white mouth and her red-rimmed eyes in the mirror at the foot of her bed. Her fingers were clutching the sheets in a vise-like grip, her spine bone-rigid.

She jumped at the sharp rap upon her door. "Christine! Are you well?" She sank back into the sheets, her body wilting with relief. Raoul entered her bedroom, the flame from the candle he held illuminating his worried frown.

Slowly she nodded, too exhausted to wonder what he was doing in the cottage at such an hour of the night. "A nightmare," she muttered, before turning her face away in embarrassment.

Raoul chuckled as he sat down on the edge of the bed, his body sinking into the thick quilt comforter. He had kept the gardener's cottage on his family's estate in perfect condition since Christine's departure after the Masquerade ball, ordering the servants to dust and freshen the rooms every day. For what reason he could not say…perhaps for a certain ridiculous hope.

But then came the night a few weeks ago that she had knocked upon his door, trembling and despondent, and he had welcomed her with open arms and a giddy joy that he never felt up until that point. She may not be his fiancée, but she was with him once again. And that was enough.

He put the candle down on her bedside dresser and leaned against the foot of her bed, regarding her face in the flickering light. "I had a bad dream once," he said, a smile creeping across his handsome features. "I dreamed that a goblin stole Little Lotte's favorite pair of shoes. And to get them back, she and her faithful knight had to stuff their faces with chocolate until the creature was suitably distracted and they could snatch them back."

Christine giggled in the darkness. "That was a _goat_, you silly goose, not a goblin."

"Well, that was our excuse at the time."

"Indeed, I had never seen Father so furious. I thought he'd never forgive you. An entire box of sweets!"

Raoul looked mortified. "What, you blamed me? You were my ever-willing accomplice!" He paused, his grin growing wider. "As it was, it was easy to win back his good favor. I simply stood outside of your tent and dedicated a ballad to him with my appalling violin skills."

She laughed again behind her hand and stretched out the other in his direction, gesturing for him to come closer. He did so, moving to sit besides her, leaning his back alongside hers against the headboard. He put an arm about her shoulder. "Your faithful knight is still here. And always will be," he said softly.

Christine turned toward him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. She nodded and leaned into his embrace. "And Little Lotte is still here as well…and always has been." Her lip began to tremble.

"What did you dream?" Raoul said quickly, choosing not to think too much into her cryptic remark. His hand rubbed her shoulder in reassurance.

"I…" Christine's mind crept unwillingly back to those terrifying moments before waking. There had been music, more beautiful and terrible than anything she had ever heard. But that had not frightened her, it had been the other sound, the wretched animal sound of… "Someone…someone was in terrible pain."

Raoul stiffened and instinctively drew her closer. "It was nothing. It was just a dream."

Christine shivered. "I could feel it…like my very blood was on fire." Tears were streaming down her face now and she knew they had nothing to do with her dream.

Raoul noticed and wiped them away with his hand. "Christine…" he whispered. "Oh God, Christine, I'm so sorry to have brought this upon you. I'm sorry about…everything. About all _this_." He took a deep breath. "You don't…you don't have to continue these sessions with Dr. Fell if you don't want to. I just wanted what was best for you, and…" he sighed furiously. "Bloody hell, I'm making a mess of everything, aren't I?"

She didn't know whether she felt more stunned or relieved. "Raoul, you think that—" She stopped herself and sniffed. "No, it's alright. It's not—I'd like to continue them, if that sits well with you."

He hugged her tightly. "He's a good man. He'll help you put everything behind you. You'll see."

_I can't…_ Christine closed her eyes to prevent further tears. So she felt before she saw his lips as they kissed hers lightly. Her eyes flew open and looked into his; they were nondescript in the darkness. As quickly as it had happened it was over, and his face was drawing away. It was about as chaste a kiss as could be imagined. It could even have been brotherly, but for the tingle that remained about her lips.

Her lips parted as his hand reached forward to caress her cheek. As his fingers touched her, she reached up and clasped his hand in one of her own.

She saw his mouth smile in the darkness, and then he was pulling her forward in a tender embrace, guiding her head to rest against his shoulder. He backed away before she had even begun to comprehend what had happened.

"Sleep well, Christine," Raoul said, retrieving the candle. "Tomorrow, I shall take you out to the gardens." He backed rather awkwardly out of the room and the door clicked shut behind him.

Christine stayed huddled against the headboard, her fingers knotted into the blankets. Her lips were cold and numb as she laid back down; a sudden crushing wave of loneliness swept over her. She felt around underneath her pillow and closed her hand around the dried rosebud blossom, her souvenir from Perros those many months ago. As her hand stroked the powdery white petals, she drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

-------------

Hannibal Lecter lay fully stretched out upon the enormous couch in his study. A human-shaped form of darker darkness inside the dark room. He was fully clothed and had not even bothered removing his shoes. His eyes were closed as his chest rose and fell gently in sleep.

He slept in his study often though there were many other rooms on the first floor that had served his purposes for the past year when he desired a true bed. But this room…he was attuned to every single particle of its being: its particular creaking at night, the rustle of the curtains from miniscule air currents, the precise sound of the wind against the windowpanes.

But when the unexpected sound of the doorknob turning rang through the darkness followed by the swish of well-oiled hinges, his breathing remained smooth and undisturbed. The figure that entered scanned the room carefully, his eyes resting upon Dr. Lecter's figure…noting the way that his chest rose and fell rhythmically in sleep.

Without pausing to shut the door, the figure moved soundlessly across the carpet, a silent wraith dappled in faint moonlight. He moved automatically towards the large armoire behind the desk. Two seconds made quick work of the lock and the large doors swung open like a tomb. He stopped suddenly as Dr. Lecter's breathing caught. He remained frozen, a solid mass of night, for what seemed like forever, until the doctor made a soft sound in his throat and began breathing deeply once more.

The shadow's eyes could see perfectly in the darkness and they followed its fingers with exacting precision as he examined the shelves of bottles and vials within the armoire. Finally he closed his hand over one as his other hand removed something from his cloak. He finished his work quickly and carefully replaced the bottle upon its place on the shelf. He shut the door and relocked it.

The entire process had taken less than a minute. He looked once more towards the doctor's sleeping form, an unreadable expression in his eyes that gleamed pale in the moonlight. He exited as quietly as he had come.

On his comfortable couch, Dr. Lecter wrinkled his nose as he sniffed for the lingering smell of the intruder: an odor of smoke and mildew drifted across the air. And he smiled as he drifted into true slumber.

_Soon…_

The doctor turned upon a shadowy heel around the statue of Venus de Milo, her exquisite, incomplete body casting a craggy silhouette upon the parquet floor. His heels clicked and echoed in the halls of the memory palace and each step stirred the dust that cloaked the rooms in a loving embrace.

_Click_.

The feel of coldness in a chubby boy's hands, the rigid coldness of death as the child wailed over his mother's unseeing eyes.

_Click_.

The feel of warmth in his hands, of life flowing across his palms and dripping from his fingers.

_Click_.

A tender white throat beneath his hands and he brought his mouth towards it, teeth bared and then craned his neck to kiss the pulsing flesh.

_Click_.

The flesh broke beneath his touch and he reeled back as her arms floundered, reaching, flailing in red, finally wrapping themselves around another bleeding form. He screamed…

"Hannibal?"

Dr. Lecter looked down at the knife in his hands then looked up to see Clarice there. The blade glinted silver in his grasp.

With a control that schooled his entire body into submission, he coughed easily and brought the knife down through the finely broiled breast of chicken upon his plate. He tried his best to ignore Clarice's piercing, inquisitive stare.

The sliver of meat was juicy and tender and cooked to perfection, but he scarcely tasted it. The wine turned to vinegar in his mouth as he realized for the first time just how quiet it was in the dining room. Clarice had returned to her own plate and was parting her chicken from its bone with the sharp point of her knife.

Her head snapped around when he spoke. "Why do you continue to dine with me?" he inquired.

Her eyes narrowed at the sudden question, her gaze fraught with suspicion. "Force of habit," she said in a steely voice before bending to her meal again, toying half-heartedly with her chicken.

Hannibal opened his mouth to speak, and significant words may have been said, but they never came. He whirled with catlike reflexes at a sudden movement behind him, the knife settled perfectly in the crook of his hand.

Erik looked past him at nothing at all and did not flinch as the silver knifepoint hovered inches from his gut. Hannibal saw his own face in the dark pupils of the other man's yellow eyes and as he watched, the dark points grew and grew until they swallowed the color from the eyes. He heard the distant clatter as Clarice's knife fell to the floor.

The other man stood in the doorway of the dining room, leaning heavily upon a cabinet. He looked around slowly at surroundings he had never before seen. When he at last spoke, his voice rasped as if he had iron filings in his throat.

"A funny thing happened to me this morning, Hannibal. Can you imagine what it was? I suddenly felt as if—" His eyes floated over to Clarice and for an eternal second their eyes met—sudden fear flickered across his gaze—before his dark pupils rolled back into his head. He made a sound as if he was gargling on a razor blade, and his hand crept up to clutch his chest. He shot Hannibal a look of complete and utter hatred before staggering to a nearby bathroom where he vomited ingloriously into the basin.

"Should I even ask?" Clarice inquired in a trembling whisper.

Hannibal felt something quiver within him. And he opened his mouth to tell her. That something had gone wrong, something else beyond himself was now in control, but his mind made him close his mouth again. All his life he had controlled the lives of those around him, and his character would not allow him to apologize now. He bent back to his meal, concentrating upon slicing the bird into perfect quarters. He heard the scraping rasp of Clarice's fork against the china plate.

Hannibal was still slicing his chicken methodically when the bathroom door swung open and Erik stormed over to within two feet of him. A faint greenish tint remained about the visible portion of his face.

"Out with it, Hannibal. What the hell did you give me?"

Hannibal chewed his meal thoughtfully, maddeningly calm once more. "Morphine. I do believe that was what you asked for."

"What _else_?"

"A simple companion drug," he said, sipping from his wine glass, ignoring the black look in Clarice's eyes that tore away at his face. "It causes your body to reject any more morphine that you attempt to inject, as you just found out. But not to worry, the dose was rather small and should be out of your system in seven days."

Erik scoffed. "There is no such drug."

"Of course, there is, I made it myself."

Erik's mouth opened but no sound came out. He cleared his throat like a rasping motor. "A whole _week_? Surely you jest?" he said indignantly, a tendril of fear in his voice now.

Hannibal dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, seeming not to notice the way that the other man's hands were shaking and inching unconsciously in the direction of his throat. "Erik, you should know me better than that. I'm being completely serious."

"You—"

Clarice stood quickly from her seat. "I believe I have had quite…enough, gentlemen. Good night." Neither of them seemingly took the slightest notice of her and she left them still glaring at each other like two gladiators in the Colosseum.

Hannibal's eyes followed the sound of her footsteps as they traveled up the stairs until he heard the sound of the door slamming shut. "Is she not the most utterly impossible woman, Erik?" he said in an elegant drawl. "Sometimes I wonder how we've lived for so long—"

"Don't you change the subject!" Erik roared.

Clarice staggered uncertainly up the stairs, her hands groping for support from the banister. _This was it, this was all_… she saw Hannibal's cold, neutral expression as the world crashed down about him, could not get it out of her mind—it fueled her fury, and she managed to get the suitcase halfway out of the closet before a wave of self-loathing made her shove it back.

_How dare she even think of running away like a sniveling brat?_ She collapsed to the bed. Tears threatened to spill onto her cheeks and she closed her eyes against them. There was more to think about than herself. _Someone needed her…_

One floor below, that someone emitted a scream of animal rage followed shortly by the sound of splintering glass. She whimpered as a stab of pain lanced through her brain.

"Erik…" she whispered. She buried her face into her pillows to block out the noise as she felt the world shake beneath her feet.

She would wonder how the next seven days ever came to pass. She remembered staring up at the ornate ceiling latticed with moonlight of her silent bedroom listening helplessly to the muffled sounds of agony that she could sometimes hear and hating, hating the way he made her feel, hating how she couldn't bring herself to confront him. Hating the stab of longing for the people she once knew.

And hating how she couldn't bring herself to enter the other room to sit by Erik's side.

_He was unbelievably, impossibly cold. Pulling his cloak around himself tightly, he burrowed further into the thick blankets of the bed. In seconds the sheets were soaked through with sweat. He pulled the blankets over his head and cried into the suffocating blackness, the sobs dry and sticking to the back of his throat._

_"I hate you, I hate you so much…"_

_The words, spoken to a figure he could not quite remember, tasted sour in his mouth._

_He heard his music then, the terrible hateful music that had poured from his fingers in the bowels of the Opera House. The music had torn his life apart with every dissonant chord, with every twisted note coaxed from his innocent angel's unwilling throat. His hands throbbed and he ground his teeth into the center of the pain. He tasted blood in his mouth and realized that he had bitten his finger, the finger where he had once worn his ring._

"Christine?"

The young woman turned, a serene expression upon her face. "Yes?"

Clarice hesitated, taken aback. "So what…what did you talk about today?"

She shrugged. "I don't quite remember. It was very happy, rather sad too, but it still made me smile to remember it." She giggled, shaking her head. "That made no sense, did it? But it was something…beautiful!"

Clarice held the door open as the 20-year-old child danced her way outside into the cold afternoon. She crossed the hall and opened the door to the study to find Dr. Lecter sitting at the piano.

"_What_ were you playing?"

He curled the fingers of his right hand into his palm, arcing his arm in a graceful motion over the keys. "A dance," he said, his voice musical and tailored to imitative perfection. Like a bolt of fate, his right hand struck home upon a chord that even Clarice would have recognized anywhere.

_Erik screamed and the weak cry disintegrated into helpless sobbing. The threads that bound his broken mind together were unraveling, disintegrating and melting as they were torn away by the force of his cathartic agony. Unspeakable memories drowned with every injection thrown with determination into the depths of his Lethe…How could anyone have denied him the bliss of forgetfulness?_

_"No…no, please no, monsieur, I beg you…" He covered his ears to no avail. "I don't want to die! Please I don't want to die…" The words Buquet had never said he still heard in his mind as easily as if the victim had choked them out with his dying breaths—still forming the words under the misguided notion that they might save him._

_The bulging eyes of the countless dead laughed at him as he writhed like the damned upon the bed._

"Tell me that I am doing wrong, Clarice. Tell me that it is wrong to free that man of the prison of his own making."

"And you would risk his life to do so?"

"Shall I risk an embarrassing failure by shying away from the edge? No Clarice, beyond the edge…everything is beautiful, everything is perfect, because you gave up everything to be there. I would risk…exactly what I risked for you."

Clarice's eyes told of murder and even Hannibal Lecter fought the urge to move farther down the length of the bench. She took a large step forward, closing the gap between them. "I wonder…if you would even notice if either of us chose to put ourselves out of our misery." Her voice was the low, scratching hiss of a black mamba about to strike. "You seem to care less…that that is exactly what you're driving both of us to do."

His face did not change. "What?" he asked, his voice wavering infinitesimally.

She took in the stricken look imprinted for the tiniest fraction of a second upon his eyes—stored it away as a priceless memory. Then she threw back her head and laughed. "Oh Hannibal, I _jest_. Surely you know me well enough by now to know that? I am merely playing a game with you, a harmless little game." She laughed and laughed and wiped away at the tears of mirth leaking from her eyes.

_Erik laughed loudly into the darkness, his mind unbelievably clear. It was so simple, so obvious what the solution had been all along!_

__

_He had injected the doctor's perfidious serum into his blood. Surely it must still be there. All he had to do was get it out._

__

_He placed a hand on the crook of his elbow and followed the pleasant drumbeat of flowing life down to his wrist. He stroked the clammy skin of his lower arm as tenderly as a lover would. Here was where it lay hidden._

__

_He needed only to draw it out…_

Hours after he had been left alone in his study, Hannibal Lecter turned the folded bit of paper in his hands, over and over. The oil in the lamp behind his head burned low, casting his hunched shadow over the scrap of white.

Whatever had been holding him back over these weeks was gone now, leaving him in a state of profound exhaustion. He uncrumpled the page without ceremony. The ink was streaked and smudged but the message, even as his heart caught within his throat, was clear.

The note slipped from his fingers. His empty hands remained hovering in the air. There was a strange prickling sensation behind his eyes and he couldn't conceive it, he couldn't accept it. His hands fell to the table to rest beside the scrap of paper, innocently white against dark mahogany.

Another shuddering breath surged through him and he knew just as quickly what he had to do. Moving faster than he himself though possible, he got to his feet and wrenched open the door to his study.

_It must be here somewhere, somewhere, he was just not looking hard enough…_

_Erik dug his nails deeper into his arm, clawing and probing, as blood sprayed onto his white shirt and bedsheets and stained his fingers. His thumbnail scraped against something hard and unyielding within his flesh and his heart sank._

__

_It was not there. He had failed. No, he would try the other arm. Perhaps he had not remembered correctly. He would not make a mistake this time. He was a careful craftsman, he never made the same mistake twice…_

__

_Erik…Erik… _

__

_His mind swung wildly, searching for the source of the voice. The voice was muffled and distorted, and he couldn't tell whether it was whispering or screaming. Then he felt smooth fingers grasping his bony, bleeding wrist and forcefully pushing his bloody nails away. He felt warmth upon his body._

_Warmth…_ "Ayesha?" _He was confused._

_The fingers paused, then they were binding up his wrist, wrapping white cloths around and around his mangled limb with such tenderness that they could have been swaddling the baby Jesus. The hands lifted the mask away and the cold air hit his exposed flesh like a thousand tiny needles, and the hands were touching his face, his neck, his hands, leaving red trails of light in their path. He tried to reach out for his mask, but his hand was too heavy._

_He looked up, feeling as if he were looking through a sky drenched in dark syrup. Through the muck he saw two bright points of light and they were blink blink blinking blue and he smiled at them as his eyes closed._

The blood was not flowing as quickly now, no longer spurting from the slashed artery like a weeping fountain. She had controlled the worst of the bleeding with the initial bandage, wrapping it around his wrist in a viselike tourniquet. The additional cloths were quickly soaking through and she was changing them often, but less often than she had dared to hope.

Her breathing was quick and harsh as she felt for his pulse; it fluttered weakly underneath her touch. She wiped angrily at the tears running down her face; it wouldn't do to have them infect the wound. Her arms were covered in blood up to her elbows, their clothes stained the color of rich wine.

With her shaking hands, she ripped at the seams of his ruined shirt, following the line of the sleeves, careful not to let the fabric touch the wound. She eased the tattered shirt off of his body and tossed it aside. And as she wiped the blood from his skin, her fingers touched the first scar.

They were white indentations in his flesh, crisscrossing and intersecting over his back and chest, the marks of years upon years of suffering branded upon hard-knotted muscles clinging to a wasted skeleton.

Her fingers trembled uncontrollably as she followed one: a deep, twisted indentation across the pressure point on his upper arm. And then her hand shook so much that she could no longer continue and her arms went around him, cradling him like a child. Nausea seized her insides as tears fell upon his cheek like rain.

Erik's head lolled upon an impossibly loose neck and she could see the serenity and faraway expression in his empty eyes. She held his unblinking gaze in hers for a moment before lowering her face to his.

Slowly, softly, she pressed her lips against his scarred forehead, her touch feather-light against his skin. His flesh was waxen and cold to her touch. Then she drew him closer with trembling arms, resting his head against her blood-soaked shoulder.

"Don't you die. Don't you dare die on me," she whispered into his hair. "I'll kill you if you do," she finished in a choked whisper. She closed her eyes as tears surged forth anew, remembering the first time she had spoken those words to the broken man she had found in the Opera cellars. She held him firmly, rocking back and forth where they had collapsed onto the floor.

That was how Hannibal Lecter found them hours later: pale and still as death, drowning in heart's blood. His strangled cry jerked Clarice from her trance and she awoke into a nightmare.


	19. The Darkest Hour

A/N: This chapter should put to rest any suspicions as to my opinion on inter-canonical romances. Maybe. And I apologize in advance for whatever anachronisms may pop up in Clarice's dialogue. It's hard to do "pissed-off" in Victorian dialect. ;-) And yes, I am aware that the drug that Dr. Lecter mentions will not exist for another sixty years. But…he is a genius after all.

**Chapter 19  
The Darkest Hour**

_The darkest hour is just before dawn.  
__– _Unknown Origin

* * *

The inarticulate cry rattled in her ears like bones in the air, and she opened her eyes to see Hannibal standing over them. She saw his eyes first, could not stop looking at them. They were wild and desperate, stripped of every vestige of the dignity and control he so prized. The maroon in his eyes was pale and thin, like droplets of red blood spread over shattered glass. 

His hands were on her shoulders—she never saw him move—holding her in a death's grip. The hands trembling with unbelievable force and shaking her as he screamed, _screamed_, "Clarice! CLARICE!"

He released her shoulders just quickly when he saw her eyes open, grabbed her wrists instead and drew her to him. His mouth was white around the edges. "My god, my god…what is this…what…" – he was shaking her again – "what did he do? _What did he do to you_?" He released her, his palms bloodstained where they had touched her wrists, and immediately grabbed her shoulders again, leaving red handprints upon her skin.

She was aware of screaming, the look of pained desperation in his eyes, _God_ his eyes, she had never seen them like that before. She grabbed his shoulders as well, holding him away from her, afraid that he would break. "He did it to himself, Hannibal! He did it to himself, all of this…!" tears were streaming down her cheeks and she didn't even notice, nor did she notice the way his hands went rigid. "He tore open his arm and was rolling his flesh in his fingers as if they were pieces of _meat_. Just staring dumbly down at what he was doing, and the look on his face! Like he didn't even know why it should hurt him so much, he…" Her words dissolved into sobs.

He did break then. She felt every raging emotion seeping out from inside him as his hands slid off her body and he collapsed on the floor. For the longest time he made no sound, his shoulders bowed as if weighted by something impossibly heavy. Then she heard a low keening wail bubble its way out from his throat. The cry increased in volume until it sounded like an animal in pain.

She sat frozen in place, afraid to move, afraid of the man kneeling before her that she no longer recognized. Afraid to…she looked back, saw Erik's body slumped upon the floor.

Clarice crawled across to him, noting how Hannibal's cry did not cease or even waver, he seemed not to notice. She reached Erik and slowly worked her hands underneath his arms, taking care to lift the bandaged arm from the ground. She remembered…the first night, how she had lifted his full frame and carried him up a flight of stairs without a second thought. But now her arms felt so heavy…she had no strength anymore.

"Hannibal." Slowly, slowly, the dark head came up, the eyes dark and uncomprehending. "Help me. _Now_."

Trembling like a crippled man, he got to his feet and crossed over to her. He stood there, unmoving, until a sharp look for her made him crouch down and grip Erik's lower body as if it were a sack. He seemed to realize after a few steps that she was directing them towards the bed. His eyes cleared slightly—they passed over Erik's bleeding arm carefully, surgically.

"No…downstairs. To the dining room." His voice was confident and knowing but barely audible.

They stumbled down the stairs together, every step a threatening obstacle to their unseeing eyes. Sunlight stabbed through the windows—could it really still be daytime?—and seared her eyes. Erik's still face, peaceful in its natural distortion, filled her mind. Hannibal's voice broke her reverie. "The door—get the door."

She looked up, saw as he moved towards her to take Erik's entire weight in his arms. She saw that they were in front of the closed door of the dining room. It was Sunday and the servants were not around.

Clarice opened the door and walked in before them. She turned up every lamp full, the light gleamed brightly off the silver place settings. She cleared the table with a swift jerk of the tablecloth—heard the crash of silver and porcelain against the walls—and replaced the cloth upon the table in time for it to receive Erik's body as Hannibal set him down.

"Wait," he said simply. He walked from the room, leaving Clarice alone.

_I've been waiting for nearly a year. I can surely wait a little more._

She looked at Erik, saw with relief how his chest rose and fell weakly yet rhythmically. He was still bleeding, she could see a tiny spreading spot of red, like a blooming rose, on the bandages. He had lost so much blood, and he was so pale…so pale.

She reached forward and brushed a ragged lock of hair from his face, moving her hand over his forehead—hating the cold, clammy feel—warming his flesh with her hand. The sound of the door announced Hannibal's return. She did not move her hand. She heard him pause behind her.

"While I appreciate your concern, it is best if he remains as cold as possible to minimize blood flow." Clarice looked up, startled. She could see life in Hannibal's eyes again, but it was weary, smiling wanly at her as he motioned to a chair with his head. "Sit down. This will take some time."

He set a bulging black bag atop the table and began removing silver tools, bandages, and several spools of surgical thread. Clarice sat slowly down in the chair as Hannibal lifted a pair of scissors in his hand, the sharp edges glinting in the bright lamplight. He cut through the makeshift bandages and went to work.

She watched him carefully for as long as she could. She saw how the lost expression in his eyes faded as intense concentration took its place. The fear that had cast such a dark shadow across his features alighted with the knowledge of his genius and faultless expertise as he painstakingly stitched torn nerves and muscle tissue back together. She watched him for hours and when exhaustion finally closed her eyes in sleep the last thing she saw was the relaxed confidence in the eyes of the master at his craft.

Clarice woke to feel something cold and wet against her face. Her eyes opened to see and feel Hannibal's hand at her throat. She stiffened for a moment before realizing that the hand was holding a wet towel and mopping the dried blood from her chin and throat.

Hannibal saw her eyes go wide, and his hands automatically drew away from her neck. He left the towel in her hands and the image of his downcast eyes imprinted in her mind. She moved the towel over her throat, feeling the dried blood loosen and the shade of red upon the white cloth grow darker. She enjoyed the coolness; it was oppressively hot in the room. Although Hannibal had turned the lamps down, the heat remained and the open windows with curtains pulled tightly over them to hide them from view did little to ventilate.

Hannibal pulled up a chair next to her, and sat down about six feet away. Clarice glanced past him, and saw Erik's unconscious form stretched out upon the table like a corpse, his left arm neatly bandaged, lying in the middle of a seemingly enormous bloodstain upon the cloth. She swallowed and her stomach turned.

He handed her a fresh towel and took back the red-stained one from her trembling hands. "He will live," he said simply, answering her unspoken question. The edge of his mouth twitched. "I injected him with my entire supply of saline solution. I had better not have wasted it."

Her laugh cut off in a strangled sob. And she wiped at her eyes with the towel, leaving streaks of red across her face. "Always a game, still always a game."

She noticed then that her blood-soaked dress was gone and she was wearing a clean cotton dress shirt that extended to her knees. Her face flushed red at the thought of him changing her clothing as she slept, and she was struck again by how much a stranger he was to her. She should not feel that way. They were _married_.

_No_, she checked herself with an inner chuckle_, they weren't_. She had nearly forgotten. Hannibal had long since sworn never again to set foot in a church for any reason other than to indulge his artistic curiosities. There were memories he would rather forget. He had arranged the papers and the register's silence, threaded the bank accounts together, and purchased the rings…though neither of them remembered to wear them.

"Remarkably quick-witted for having returned from the dead," Hannibal remarked, wrapping the bloody towel around his fingers.

"But I wasn't," she said. A niggling suspicion arose in her mind. "You didn't think that the two of us were…" Her words trailed off at the inexplicable look in his face.

"If you were," he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "I honestly cannot say I would have blamed you."

Her thoughts ground to a screeching halt. At a loss for other words, she dug her barb in deeper, probing, digging into his pain to find the answers she had been seeking for the better part of a year. "And how are you now so sure that we were not?"

He brought his hand out from his pocket, it was holding a folded piece of paper in his hands. It looked vaguely familiar. "This, Clarice. Or…was this _your_ game?"

She dug her fingers into the towel, feeling the fibers stretch under the pressure. "That goddamned thief."

He raised his eyebrows. "Such harsh words for the man you tried to save. Was he not your little lamb? The one you felt you had to protect no matter what the cost?"

"_That_…was a long time ago."

"I don't think so, Clarice. Just like the little orphaned farm girl who couldn't save the spring lambs from being slaughtered before her eyes, the grown up _ex-Special Agent_ Starling can no longer stand by as the monster she married dangles these lives like marionettes in his treacherous claws."

Her knuckles were bone white from her death grip upon the towel. She heard the sound of tearing fabric as her fingers ripped through the thick cloth. Her head snapped up, ready to deliver a scathing retort. And stopped when she saw that he was not looking at her at all. His eyes stared to the side, looking inward. For all his sarcasm there had been no directed malice in his words, and it confused her.

She stood slowly and took a shuffling step in his direction. "Why these questions, Hannibal? Why these expired, tiresome mind games?"

He had draped the towel over his knee and now unfolded the scrap of paper with both hands. "'I love you desperately, more so than even my own sanity. And for that, I cannot leave.'" The note dropped from his hands. "An entire page of this…was there any truth to your mawkish saccharine words, or were you exploring an alternative career as a serial romance novelist?"

Once again the bile and bitterness in his words did not roll past his tongue. He averted his eyes as he spoke. _He looked away!_

Almost by instinct she reached out and turned his face back towards her. She looked into his eyes; there seemed to be a dull sheen upon them, locking her out from their true depths. Without releasing him, she said, "I merely found it easier to say these things without you around to hear them."

He pulled away her hand that was at his chin. There were still some smudges of dried redness upon the back. He wiped them away with the towel. "So you were speaking in earnest," he said thoughtfully. "What I can't imagine, after spending this year with a bare shell of a man, is _why_."

Her jaw clenched at his soft query and at the delicate pressure of his suddenly gentle hands upon hers. "You can't…" She tried to draw her hand away but he held it firmly in place and then the floodgates seemed to open.

"You can't imagine…it's all true, of course. And you knew it from the moment I visited you in that cell. I am…enthralled by you, in every sense of the word. The fiery-spirited Special Agent Starling who told a national agency to go fuck themselves weeps like a drooping willow before the man she abandoned everything for. And why? Because he fascinated her, he set something free inside her and she loved it. He made her believe there was something more to the world than the black and white demons and angels of her childhood. And she…loved it." She tried again to pull away, half-heartedly tugging at her hand as her throat twisted around itself.

Hannibal watched her attempt to compose herself. His fingers moved slowly over the back of her hand. "Such a different outburst from before…oh yes, I remember. That time when you confronted this murderer and made him tremble. Yes, I remember. Yet you speak this time with equal earnest." He raised his eyes to meet hers briefly before dropping them again to concentrate on her hands.

"Let me tell you…how it was before. When you flew as an avenging angel to rescue this murderer who was quite happily going to his doom, and when I lifted your unconscious form in my arms and brought you to safety, your life was the least of my concerns. I was fascinated by you, by this woman who spent her whole life fighting for justice and then risked her life to prevent someone from meeting his.

"Nothing fascinated me more than the loss of faith and you were such a _prize_ specimen. I toyed with you, made you relive your most painful experiences and quelled the fire in your eyes with a vicious cocktail that I knew you could never fight. Benzodiazepines do not play fair, but I was finished with fair games, I was finished with quid pro quo. I had you completely and I was not about to let you go. I could have done anything…"

"But you didn't," Clarice interrupted. "You had so many opportunities, you simply refused to touch me until I had made my own decision." She smiled with a mixture of bitterness and cunning. "What could have been going through the mind of Hannibal Lecter? Hannibal the Cannibal, who had never failed to take what he wanted, did not take what he could not live without. I still wonder…if I had not stayed, would you have used your more _certain_ methods to secure my obedience?"

Dr. Lecter took several moments before answering. Then, he simply smiled, nodded, and said, "Yes. I could have quite easily killed you and retained you in my memory place. I could have lived on with nothing but a perfected image you in my mind. But when the time came, I could not." He looked up at her, his eyes stormy with passion and uncertainty. But he continued speaking. "And I feared it. I feared it like you feared me but remained enthralled. I had found something that could not be possessed. I had discovered the perfect specimen to take Mischa's place, but…I could not. At that moment, it was not I who made the decision. When you offered yourself to me, I was…afraid and unprepared, and I…loved it. I love you, Clarice. I love you more than simple words can tell."

The soft and achingly simple sentence fell between them like a bomb waiting to go off.

Clarice stumbled back a few paces and then froze, her body held immobile by something she could not comprehend. This same indescribable force now surged through the veins behind her eyes, making them burn. She searched Hannibal's face, hunting desperately for a hidden meaning to his words, fumbling for the gauze of deception to soothe the naked emotion that now scorched her skin. She found nothing, and with that revelation, whatever force that was holding her back cut off as abruptly as an undampened chord.

She flew at him, she heard the thud of his chair as he stood up to receive her. And she was screaming and striking at every exposed area of his body that she could. "You bastard!" she shrieked. "You manipulative bastard!" He had grabbed her arms, dulling the force of her onslaught. She continued to flail away. "I won't let you do this to me again. I…wont—"

He silenced her with a kiss.

Her eyes went wide. Her hands trembled by his sides, fingers curling around empty air. Then her arms came around him swiftly, possessively.

They tore at each other. The pain and frustration they had suffered for nearly a year searing their frantic embrace with a fiery breathlessness. Their mouths melted together and battled, lips and tongues moving at a frenzied pace, giving and taking with equal fervor. His hands buried themselves in her hair as her nails dug into the back of his neck, pulling him closer with both her mouth and her hands and when they parted, the tears that stained her face were not hers alone.

Hannibal's breathing was ragged and uneven as he pulled away to behold her. Her face was flushed and streaked with blood and tears with strands of loose hair clinging to her damp cheeks. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Nestling her head into the crook of his neck, he gazed over her hair with bright eyes. "My dear," he said, his voice low to disguise its trembling. "I, ah…trust that you do not now expect me to say such things with frequency. I do have a reputation to maintain after all."

She laughed, choking back a sob as her tears stained his collar. She tightened her arms around him and felt him do the same. "I love you, you idiot," she said as she kissed his face with trembling lips. "I love you so much."

Hannibal kissed her hair and inhaled her sweet scent. He hesitated infinitesimally and then drew back. He reached into his jacket and brought his hand out slowly, almost shyly. He was holding his golden wedding band. "Will you marry me?"

"What?" She was sure her mouth had dropped open.

He swallowed and took a deep, shuddering breath. "I…I refuse to lose you again." He pulled her to him. "Will you travel with me out to the countryside away from any tolerable form of civilization where no one knows our names? Will you enter a shabby, filthy country church and stand before the altar of a God whom I have always loathed while a priest pronounces the words that will bind us in holy matrimony?"

She wasn't sure if the sound she made was a sob or a laugh, she suspected a combination of both. She rained incessant light kisses upon his face and brow. "Of course I will, Hannibal Lecter. We both will."

He blinked, looking at her, suddenly unsure of how to respond. Then for the first time that she could remember in a long time, a genuine smile appeared on his face, chasing away the darkness that clung to his eyes. Hannibal kissed her forehead again, his hand trembling slightly. His face turned serious. "Clarice, I'm sorry for—"

"Don't." She smiled. "It would only sound silly." She squeezed his body. "I understand. Trust me that I understand."

_I'm sorry for everything_. He held her as if she were a delicate Ming vase, regarding her with a mixture of awe and respect.

She framed his face in her hands and her eyes hardened. "What do you plan to do to Christine?"

He swallowed. "I was not lying to you before, my dear. She dwells in the past, in her memories. I was attempting to make her forget and if I had to—"

"We'll find another way."

"But—"

"_We'll find another way_." He felt the argument die in his throat. "And Erik?"

Hannibal sighed. "I have known Erik for a very long time. He is the most intelligent man I know yet he has never failed to be remarkably stupid when it comes to knowing what's best for himself."

"And you do?"

He closed his eyes as if he were in pain. "I…thought I did."

She slid from his grasp and crossed over to where the former Phantom lay in his own blood. Still deeply unconscious, his normally tense jaw and drawn features had softened, lending a sense of boyish innocence to his twisted face. Clarice lowered her hand to caress his good cheek, feeling the chilled flesh warm underneath her touch. "I will not condemn your motives, Hannibal. Heaven knows they were nobler than I would have thought possible. But to think that this was worth it…that the poison is gone from his body, that you pushed him beyond the edge and he returned safely. No, Hannibal. I hope that…that you see now. It was not worth it for me, it is not for him. The morphine is gone and with it his defenses. He will now have to face everything that he attempted to suppress for years."

She whirled around to him again. "I will care for him. I will…do whatever I must and this time, you will not interfere. Do you understand?"

He pulled her to him and said, in a sad voice devoid of resentment, "Yes."

"Good." Her hand snaked its way up his neck to caress his hair. She did not speak her greatest fear. She did not ask for a doctor's opinion on the extent of the damage to the nerves of Erik's arm, his hand…his fingers. She felt heat pressing against the backs of her eyes and she furiously shook it away. There had been enough pain for one day. "When will he wake?"

"I cannot say. Perhaps hours, perhaps days. I dare not give him anything to hasten the process."

"Hmm, I may have an idea."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I need to go back to the Opera House."

"Alone?"

A pause. "Yes."

"I will have the carriage ready in five minutes."

_He was floating upon a warm breath of darkness, the pleasant night that had been his shelter for so much of his life had returned when he needed it the most. Here there was no pain. No stabbing agony in his pale eyes._

_A noise was intruding, a rhythmic sound of heavy breathing, catching upon itself with every breath. It was…sobbing? A female voice… the clear, bell-like quality of the cries echoed and little tears of light were falling through the darkness, flashing with a warm, painless glow and each drop was clear like a baby's laughter. A baby too young to despair, to young to be afraid. He watched the light fall before his face. And smiled._

When he opened his eyes again, he was in a gilded hall draped with tapestries and mirrors. His hand flew to his face but stopped short of touching it, he knew that there was no mask there. A strange resignation came over him and his hand dropped, his shoulders hunching as he began to walk.

He took care not to turn his head to look in the mirrors as he passed them. The carpet underneath his feet was deep and familiar.

His head snapped up at a cough from nearby. He took a step back. He saw Monsieur Firmin take out his pocketwatch and look at it.

"It is four o'clock in the afternoon," the dead man said, his voice bubbled and grated in his throat. He looked up at Erik. "You should be awake," he drawled. "The performance begins in a few hours." He tapped the edge of the timepiece against a spectacle, making a clicking noise like the turning of a key. His face was white, his head cocked at a crazy angle with a thin trail of red running down from the corner of his mouth. His chest looked _wrong_.

_Click._

_Click._

_Click._

_Click._

When Erik did not speak, Firmin lowered his hand from his face and scoffed. "Just as well," he gargled. "We don't want you here anymore. This _thing_ you are, we don't want it. And neither do you."

Erik took a step back as if he had been struck and as he did, he stepped inadvertently in front of a mirror. Before he could turn away, he saw…he saw a ragged black shadow, formless and clinging to the carpet like overgrown mold, sickly and faded. He held up his hands and realized that they had dissolved into formless vapor as well. He had become a true ghost at last.

A flash of blue to his right tore his mind away from what would surely have been a deeply depressing moment. He turned away from Firmin without a second thought and raced after the vision. He ran through the twists and turns of hallways at once familiar and foreboding and emerged in his cellars. He heard murmuring voices in the air as he raced down, down, down through winding stone passageways and finally stopped at the edge of the lake.

A faint blue mist clung to the surface of the black water and he could see the vision disappearing into the haze. Almost as if he had willed it, he saw his boat to his side and he jumped inside, pushing himself into the middle of the lake.

Once he was well away from shore, he poled across the lake with deliberate slow strokes. The unceasing murmurs in the darkness reverberated loudly, bouncing off the water, then fading away before their echoes could breathe.

With every stroke across the lake, he felt his formless body solidify a bit more and when the boat ran aground before his front door, he was fully human. He stepped onto land, looking around the familiar surroundings that were less familiar than before.

He drew back before touching the doorknob. There was someone here. Ignoring the paralyzing dread that seized his limbs, he pushed the door open into his main room, hardly noticing the lack of destruction or shattered glass. He stopped short at another sight.

Clarice Starling had a small stack of his music in her hands and looked up from where she leaned against the piano as he entered. Her blue dress shimmered in the candlelight. She raised a sheet, the red ink upon it wild and illegible. "How you musicians read this stuff is beyond my comprehension," she said.

His tongue felt thick and strange in his mouth. "How…how did you find your way down?"

She fixated him with a look as if he were a particularly dimwitted child. "I walked straight from here to there."

"That's impossible. There is no path so simple."

She threw up her hands in exasperation. "Brilliant man with the stubbornness of the devil! When will you learn that you are not alone? You have no right to accuse Christine of being selfish, you just as selfish as she. When she attempted to draw you from the darkness where you lived, you pushed her away, clinging selfishly to the misery you think you so richly deserve, leaving nothing but your memory in her mind. A festering, ceaseless memory of which she can never be free."

Every word that tumbled from her mouth hit him like a stinging slap even as his mind screamed in denial. "No…that's not true. It wasn't like that." He gazed helplessly around his room, desperately seeking comfort in it surroundings. His eyes darted to the piano as a familiar form suddenly alighted upon it. His gaze flew to Clarice.

She smiled wryly. "I found her curled inside your bed."

His arms outstretched automatically as the cat leapt down from the piano and jumped into his arms. He stroked its soft back lightly. The animal purred, snuggling into the crook of his elbow. He smiled and looked down at the creature. "I have missed you, Ayesha."

"Adoration." His head swung in her direction, perplexed, as she spoke. "What a pretty picture it makes." Clarice dropped the leaflets of music unceremoniously back atop the piano. "You can see heaven in this illiterate scrawl on paper. You can see happiness in what you hold in your arms."

Erik felt himself rooted to the floor, powerless to move, as Clarice came closer and closer. As during their first confrontation in the cellars, sweat began to form on his forehead. When she finally stopped before him, he could see his trembling form fully reflected in her eyes. He barely noticed when Ayesha jumped out of his arms, hissing at the intruder.

Her smile was wan, like that of a sickly child. "And yet…you cannot see what stands right before your eyes." Without letting him respond, she placed one sun-browned hand upon his unmarred cheek and the other behind his head and drew his face firmly down to hers.

Her mouth closed over his with resolution and finality. Her lips were roughened and fierce, but oh so soft… They moved over his with leisure, warm and insistent, taking their slow torturous time as her sigh filled his ears like the crackle of wildfire. When she released him, he felt something draw away with her and he swayed on his feet. He reached for her impulsively and she pulled back, a sudden smile lighting her features.

"Wait…" He croaked. With every step she took away, he felt himself grow weaker and weaker. He grabbed the arm of a couch for support as he sank to the floor.

"We have things to discuss, Erik." The voice was light, musical, and impossibly familiar. His head snapped up, and black stars exploded in his vision. Before the darkness claimed him, the last thing he saw were the eyes amidst a blurry face and they were blink blink blinking blue in the darkness…

He opened his eyes again when he felt the warm breath upon his face and the slight weight upon his chest. He felt the shape start in surprise at his sudden movement, but soon she was rubbing her head under his chin and purring as though she would never stop.

"Ayesha…" His dry lips curled in a weak smile even as his head felt as if it had emerged from a meat grinder. His left arm felt as if it were paralyzed, so he lifted his right to hug the cat to him.

_"—knew she would wake him."_

His vision cleared enough that he could make out other shapes, their edges blurry and dully shining. He watched as the two shapes came together to form one.

_"—tried to get the music box, too, but it was locked in the vaults."_

Erik blinked again and then he saw the figures of Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter standing there, hands entwined. He saw her mouth open as she smiled.

_"His eyes just—"_

He saw her hand approaching, stretching across that interminable gulf, ignoring Ayesha's hiss as it descended to rest upon his head. He felt the hand sink into the tender softness that was his forehead. Black irises of pain bloomed behind his eyes and he made an inarticulate noise in his throat. The hand drew away almost immediately.

He saw Hannibal hug her close, holding her like he never wished to let her go.

_"I love you."_

Her hand had left a burning soreness upon his forehead and he moved to lift his left hand to wipe it away. His arm would not move. Ayesha's blue eyes winked at him quizzically as his face contorted with the effort. It was too much and he finally stopped trying, releasing his breath in a soundless sigh as he drifted away into a dreamless sleep.


	20. Truce Over Tea

A/N: Ummmm, I'm sorry again? I apologize far too often, lol, I shall try to make it less necessary in the future. I didn't expect it to be this long, but I was stuck for the longest time about how to continue the story, I know how it ends, it's getting there that is the problem. Well, most of the next chapter had already been written, so it shouldn't take as long for chapter 21.

Happy Phantom movie, everyone! No matter what you thought of it, it is still quite an accomplishment. And therefore no innuendos in this chapter should be taken as referring to the movie in any shape or form.

* * *

**Chapter 20**

**Truce Over Tea**

In the future, Erik would never know how long he lay in that bed as voices floated through his mind jabbering like bluejays faster and faster before another voice drawled by too slowly to bear. Sometimes he could see a black dot that shrank until it was too small to see before it grew and grew to an impossible size and made his mind tremble.

Sometimes his mind would clear enough to feel a smooth hand beneath his chin and a bowl filled with liquid that smelled of herbs lifted to his lips. But these times were few and far between and he always slept deeply afterwards.

Then came the day when he did not sleep and the smooth hand remained at his chin as his chest warmed from the broth. The fog of sleep and dull pain slowly lifted to reveal a face surrounded in a halo of bright white light, shining from the lamp behind her head. His eyes opened wide with joyous disbelief.

"Christine…"

The bowl slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a great clatter. She seemed not to notice as she reached a trembling hand towards him – he flinched as she touched his malformed cheek.

She bit her lip, tears beginning to form in her angelic eyes. "She told me that you were here, I did not believe it…"

He turned his face towards her beautiful hand and pressed his lips into her palm. He had not seen her for so long, not even in his mind. He thought that he had remembered her perfectly. He was wrong.

"Christine…" he choked out. His lips felt incapable of forming any other coherent words. He was rendered further speechless as she pressed her own lips into the back of his hand.

"Oh Erik, what a fool I have been…"

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a warning bell rang. "Christine, what did—" She ducked her head swiftly and stopped his lips with her own. Madness surged through him like a raging fire. Both of his hands wrapped around her head, his fingers burying themselves into her hair, caressing it as if it were the finest silk. He tasted her tears and his own upon her mouth as he kissed her with impossible desperation. The heat rose inside him as he breathed the air from her lungs and he was burning up, burning with a sweet, hellish fire that he never wished to end…

Erik awoke with a sweaty gasp, his chest heaving, his sucking lungs suddenly cold and empty. He awoke into darkness but for a single candle burning upon the dresser next to the bed. His left arm remained immobile beside him. He was alone.

Erik could not remember the last time he had shed tears of self-pity without self-loathing, but he felt them pushing against the backs of his eyes now.

Awake, truly awake, he felt memories and emotions surging through his mind with the merciless force of a tidal wave. His brain reeled, unused to such an unimpeded freeway through its twisted circuits. He waited until the pounding madness lifted and then he remembered…

He remembered his madness. He remembered the blood. He remembered the hands upon his face. He remembered the touch of her mouth.

Red hot spears lanced through his mind again and he moaned nearly inaudibly.

He heard a soft sigh echo in the dark room.

There was only one person that could be. He felt the imprint of her hand upon his face and he began trembling from a long overdue reaction of…guilt? How could he feel guilt for something that had never happened? Yet he still felt _something_, something that crawled its way up his throat like a loathsome insect.

_Say something_. "Good morning…Clarice."

A chuckle. "Good _afternoon_, Erik."

Clarice's voice sounded oddly deep.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Erik saw an upside-down pair of maroon eyes, a nose, and then a mouth slide into view, like the head of a bat dropping from the dark ceiling. The head moved further down his field of vision until another head came into view, a furry head with slanted blue eyes.

Erik sat up at once and immediately regretted it as his back and every single other muscle attached to it screamed in pain. When the red haze disappeared he saw that Dr. Lecter had moved around to the side of the bed and was feeling for something within his breast pocket. He shrank involuntarily back against the headboard.

The hand emerged holding a steel stethoscope. "I promise you, Erik. I have no needles, knives, or mysterious potions on my person. They all reside in the locked cabinet downstairs." His mouth smiled. "Although, I suppose that wouldn't stop you."

Erik narrowed his eyes and cursed his ridiculously pounding heart. "Go to hell," he growled.

The doctor raised one brow. "I hardly need your blessing. But not before I check your vitals. And not before I pull this willing accomplice off of my arm before she joins me."

Ayesha was purring like a steam engine, her tail curled around the doctor's arm as she stared up at him as if he were a new god. Hannibal deposited her unceremoniously on the pillow next to Erik's head.

"Kindly keep this ridiculous furball out of my way," he said as he arranged the stethoscope around his neck.

Unoffended, the Siamese cat yawned in his face before curling up in the warm hollow of Erik's throat.

Dr. Lecter set the metal tongue of the instrument over his patient's heart and listened intently. If he noticed the way the other man's yellowing eyes were glaring at him with murderous intensity, he did not show it. He moved the instrument over a chest that, but for its gentle rise and fall, could have been sculpted of ice. He drummed his fingers against the ribs, listened, and then stepped back, seemingly satisfied.

The doctor looked into Erik's poker face and then looked on past him to the cat, who was now grooming herself languidly. "It looks as if your master will recover quite nicely." Ayesha turned her blue eyes onto him. "Make sure he receives his proper fluids daily and protect him from any unnecessary stress."

Erik coughed, unable to restrain himself. "You're talking to the _cat_," he said incredulously.

Dr. Lecter's maroon eyes settled on him once again. "I find her to be the more agreeable conversationalist. Of the two of you, she happens to be the one who doesn't want to scratch my eyes out." Erik blinked. "Am I correct?"

"You murdered Firmin." The statement was abrupt and not a question. Dr. Lecter's face was impassive. "Am _I _correct?"

Dr. Lecter retrieved a glittering razor from the bedside dresser. He lifted Erik's limp left arm from the bed in a viselike grip. He paused for a moment, the razor hovering in the air, before slicing through the bandages with a swift cut.

They fell away to reveal a jagged mess of red and yellow scarring held together with black thread. Erik, who had seen much worse, closed his eyes against a wave of nausea.

When it had passed, he opened his eyes and pressed onward. "Why did you do it?"

Dr. Lecter took his time unwrapping the soiled bandages. "Does the Angel of Death require a reason for doing his job?" he said at last.

Erik's eyes flashed. "How do you know about that? I was very careful never to tell you."

The doctor chuckled. "You underestimate yourself, Erik. It would amuse you, some of the stories the Eastern traders carried over the Urals. They spoke of the masked wraith that could slaughter a dozen men without a scratch to his person and awake the next day for a dozen more, having devised ever more elaborate methods of death. You were the devil's apprentice one day, the spawn of a dragon, the next. You built quite a reputation, Erik. If I had known you then, I would have been jealous. People didn't know of me until my 40s. And you were never captured, either."

Dr. Lecter wrapped a roll of new bandages around and around the wound. Erik's eyes were closed, every visible muscle twitching from effort. _Damned if I will lose control in front of him again_.

Hannibal looked up and saw him. He scoffed. "Erik, you are nothing like me. I killed Firmin because I found him to be a distasteful human being. I treasured the look of helpless fear in his eyes as I cut him open. I shed no tears of remorse afterwards or desired any form of penance." He clipped the new dressing snug and tight against Erik's arm and stepped back. "The Angel of Death neither seeks nor expects salvation. You are no fallen morning star. You are instead the crippled shepherd still wrestling with his God."

Erik used his right arm to pull his left close to his chest. He looked up at the doctor, a firestorm brewing in his yellow eyes. "I do not know whether to curse you or to thank you," he said at last.

Hannibal placed the stethoscope back in his pocket. "Ask Clarice when she returns from the museum. I daresay she would know better than I. She knows many things better than I, including you, I believe."

A week ago, Erik would have sensed the warning signals coming from miles away. He would have known the right words to say to masterfully change the subject to something suitably mundane or melodramatic. Erik nodded, barely hearing him. "She is an extraordinary woman." He stopped, realizing the implications of what he had just said. He shivered, unaccustomed to and loathing his new sluggish and unguarded mind. He looked down, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Get me another vial from your cabinet," he growled. "And my mask…give it back. You have no right to keep it from me." His face, which he had nearly become comfortable exposing within this household, had suddenly begun to crawl.

Hannibal palmed the razor and made it disappear. "I think not, Erik. Trust me when I say that the cabinet has been secured from you in every way possible. And your mask is no longer my decision to make. Ask Clarice when she returns…she is something this Angel of Death neither sought nor expected," he finished in a muted tone.

Erik blinked, uncomprehending. Something was missing from this discourse. Hannibal's jealousy, his suspicion. His _own_ anger, anger at how they had manipulated him so…his eyes settled once on his immobile arm. "How can you—"

"You owe us your life, Erik. Nothing more, nothing less…and I owe you an apology for treating it so." Hannibal turned at the sound of the door opening and his eyebrows raised at the person revealed. "Ah darling, how kind of you to join us. How was your trip to the Opera?" He leaned forward to kiss Clarice's cheek as she walked over to them.

In a muddle over the doctor's sudden mood swings (and he had thought _he_ was moody), Erik focused one a single line of confusion. "I thought you said that she went to a museum."

He thought Clarice paled ever so slightly; perhaps it had been a trick of light. Hannibal suddenly looked distracted. "Did I? Must have been a slip of the tongue. I shall take my leave now. Good day to the both of you." He walked out the door, humming the overture from _Carmen_ as he went.

Erik stared. Clarice half-smiled. "How are you feeling?" she asked as she crossed over to him and, without warning, tilting her forehead to rest against his. Ayesha blinked twice from her position on the other side of her master's head, considering this intruder. Then she swished her tail and leaped off the bed to disappear into a dark corner.

His breathing grew short and pained at the sensation of her breath on his cheeks and her cool hand behind his ear. _Stop this at once!_ He was suddenly very very aware of his bare chest as she reached down to pull the blanket higher upon his body, tucking the ends gently behind his back.

"Your fever has diminished."

_Why was she so damnably calm?!_

He folded one arm ineffectively over his chest. He had never deluded himself into thinking that he was a fine figure of a man. His muscles were taut and sculpted from his grueling existence tramping up and down endless flights of stairs but his frame was shrunken, his bones bowed in upon themselves as if eternally crushed by some terrible weight. He hid it well…but nothing would change the fact that his body was so thin it looked as if it would break upon sitting down.

While he was shrinking away, she seemed completely at ease. Ever since the night he had stolen the note from her dress until the day he had passed out in her arms, she had always stayed as far from him as she could manage. S_he no longer feared him_, he realized with a sudden bolt of clarity.

Not his face, she had never feared his face. But after that night, she had feared what he could have become. _Escape_. He nearly laughed. _Since when had **he** become an escape from darkness?_

She smiled brightly, her features lighting up with unweighted delight. "You look well, Erik."

He scoffed, a sound that fell silent as she ran a wet towel over his unmasked cheek, wiping away beads of perspiration. "Your eyes are different. They're…lighter."

He stared flabbergasted. "Thank you." It was the only thing he could say. He laid one hand upon the bandages. "Thank you for-for everything."

Something in her eyes receded at this and she suddenly looked distinctly uncomfortable. Clearing her throat, she toyed with the sleeves of her dress. "Erik, there's something I must tell you. At the Opera today…"

"Hannibal said that you were at a museum."

"Ye-es. About that…well, I suppose it's best that I show you. Follow me." She stepped away from his side and made to walk out into the adjoining music room.

He sat up in the bed. "Wait, what am I supposed to—"

She turned, arching an eyebrow in an expression that he knew had graced his own features many times before. "Follow me, Erik. You are not a cripple."

He hesitated, and then swung his legs onto the floor, his bare feet sinking comfortably into the carpet. The area was of a slightly lighter color than the rest of the carpet, as if it had been thoroughly mopped and scrubbed clean. He felt slightly dizzy, but his legs took his weight easily.

He looked to find Clarice holding a shirt up to him. At least, that's what it looked like it was supposed to be. Pieces of cloth had been sewed onto the sides and the left sleeve had been torn right above the elbow, ragged threads dangling from the end like fungus. The whole thing looked like an old patchwork quilt.

"I'm afraid it's not terribly elegant. But your own shirt was a lost cause and Hannibal is quite a bit smaller than you. I took out the sides myself," she said proudly. She caught the look in his eyes and laughed. "Not to worry, I have hired a seamstress to make the others. Now come here." She stepped toward him with the shirt. He took a step back.

"How kind of you, madam. To recognize that I am no cripple but to treat me as one nonetheless."

She gave him a startled glance and he inwardly cursed himself. He hadn't spoken to her like that in a long time and she was the least deserving of his temper now. She set her lips into a line. "Be my guest, _sir_." And she threw the shirt at him.

He caught it and put his right arm through one sleeve with ease. He knew before he even tried that he would not be able to do this, but his pride would not let him admit it. The shirt dangled from one arm like a flag as he fruitlessly tried to wrap it around his body, his frustration mounting at her expressionless eyes.

_It was so easy! Just reach back with your left arm one inch and you have it. How could something so simple be beyond his grasp?!_ But he did not scream, even as sweat poured into his eyes. And he made no sound of frustration even as she stepped forward to reach around him and pull the shirt around him. She lifted his dead arm and placed it gently inside the sleeve. The arm flopped against his side as she released it.

Erik did not take his eyes off of her. "Impossibility is not a concept that I acknowledge," he hissed through clenched teeth, his breath coming in light gasps.

She hesitated, clearly about to say something, but then just shrugged. "Then don't," she said. She buttoned up the shirt without comment, not missing the way his chest shivered. She stepped back when she was done, allowing him to feel her handiwork.

The patchwork quilt fit quite well, and Erik noted with admiration how the torn sleeve ended right above the bandaged portion of his arm.

Clarice smiled wryly. "I shall not put you in the uncomfortably position of thanking me with your wounded pride, so please don't mention it. Follow me." And she continued on her way out into the music room. Erik followed without a word.

He walked through the door and blinked, his eyes adjusting slowly to the sudden light. The music room was bright and airy, the damask curtains replaced with light linen and a single window on the back wall curtainless, the pane of glass open.

"That window looks out upon the forest. It is our property and only we use it, so do not fear being seen."

He simply nodded, his sense dull and heady from the sharp clean air flowing through the window, the afternoon sun piercing his eyes and the white curtains billowing softly upon the breeze. It was like walking into a dream.

Clarice moved to stand beside the table; two small objects lay upon its surface. One of them was a teacup full of steaming liquid. She lifted it towards him. "It seems that Hannibal told one of the servants to prepare this for you. Here, it will do you good."

Erik took the china vessel in his right hand and downed the hot liquid in one gulp. The warmth that spread through his body felt beautiful. He put the cup down on the table and looked down at the same time to the second object.

He felt his dream crash down abruptly around him as the white mask stared back at him with a life of its own. He reached out with a trembling hand towards the object that had always been his protection but now looked like nothing more than a cool prison. _When was the last time he had felt the warmth of the sun upon both cheeks?_

He touched the mask with one finger and drew back almost immediately. What had once been porcelain was now lighter, hollow and artificial. He knew the feel of celluloid, the new synthetic material invented merely fifteen years ago, they called it _plastic_. "What is the meaning of this??"

"The mask is not yours, Erik."

"I guessed that much! So what the hell is this?!"

Clarice sat down slowly in one of the chairs and motioned for Erik to do the same. "Sit down, Erik, and I will explain."

"I'd rather stand."

"Fair enough. Last week, I went to the Opera House to retrieve Ayesha from your home." Erik nodded, some distant portion of his mind trying to register the fact that he had slept for a week when he normally slept hardly at all. "I fully expected to see your home destroyed. After all, the mob would have found their way around the lake eventually…"

"I heard them find the piano as well. I was hunting you, remember? What you heard, I heard."

"They fixed it."

"They…they what?"

"The piano. And the organ, as well. Found a damn good craftsman, too, I could hardly tell that either had ever been broken."

"And _why_ would they do something like that?" he asked, knowing he would not like the answer even as his heart leaped with joy. Those instruments had become the only family he had ever had.

Clarice sighed, not relishing what she would say next. "It seems as if Andre is more foresighted than I gave him credit for. He stopped the destruction of your home before it had gone too far. He posted guards outside your door day and night throughout the renovations. And…he now allows paying customers to enter the cellars from opening to closing times."

A carriage could have driven quite easily through Erik's mouth. "A…_public exhibit_?"

"Andre prefers to call it a 'historical museum'. That way, he receives sanctioned funds from the government."

"And you…let this happen?" Erik managed.

"I had no say in the matter. By the time I found out what Andre had done, it was too late. He had made the decision that very night and had the necessary papers the next morning. With all the hysteria surrounding Piangi's murder, he had no trouble convincing the proper people that this would be the best way to show once and for all that the infamous Opera Ghost was nothing to fear. Fortunately, this does mean that most of your possessions were left intact."

Clarice watched him closely throughout her entire speech, waiting for his reaction. His initial shock had been expected, but when he threw back his head and laughed uproariously, she was slightly taken aback.

"Come and see the dwelling of the infamous Opera Ghost! See his horrible music, sleep in his bed! God, what an idea! Andre may yet get back all those francs he's paid me. He has had some customers, I hope?"

"Tickets are sold out for the next month."

"Better and better. They'll be auctioning off my possessions next."

"Er…"

The mirth died from his face to be replaced with horror. "They haven't?"

"No. They are currently locked in the vaults for which even I cannot get the key. I have talked Andre out of it for the time being. But I wouldn't hold out hope."

Erik reached forward very very slowly and picked up the imitation mask from the table. "And so this…a souvenir?"

"One or two designers got a good enough look at you on stage that night."

He stiffened. "Don't tell me that they are also…"

"They have wigs and cloaks for sale as well. One thousand francs for the entire eveningwear ensemble."

Still slightly dazed, Erik turned the mask over and over in his hands. "The designer of this atrocity should be shot. This flimsy piece is barely big enough to cover my eye, what were they thinking?"

"They were thinking to make a profit." She smiled sadly. "I suppose that is all they think of now."

He dropped the mask; it made no sound as it hit the carpeted floor. He shook his head as he collapsed into a chaise. "Not in the madness of a thousand nightmares could I have ever imagined this."

"Erik—"

"Please, leave me," he said in a small voice.

She didn't argue, merely nodded and moved to take the empty teacup. He stayed her with his hand. "Leave it."

Clarice drew back. "Erik…you always have a home with us."

He blinked and looked up at her briefly. "I know."

After she was gone, he brought his foot down upon the discarded mask swiftly. The plastic was cheap and unrefined; it shattered into pieces under the blow, powdery bits of white clinging to his foot. He stared at the pieces upon the floor, suddenly remembering that he completely forgotten to demand his own mask back. He made a furious sound in his throat and collapsed back into his chair.

Erik continued to sit in the music room as the sun went down and the throbbing brightness melted to warm reds and oranges that whispered like soft flames over his features. He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes.

His left arm twinged. His eyes snapped open. It had been small, like a pinprick in his upper shoulder. He couldn't have imagined it…could he?

An emotion rolled through him then that he hadn't felt in months.

_A challenge, is it? So be it._

It was sweet and it filled him whole as his head became wonderfully clear.

He looked down at the teacup before him, lying quite innocently on the table. He drummed the fingers of his right hand against the wood. It would take time, he knew.

_I have nothing else_.


	21. Ultimata

A/N: At last, a chapter starring the much-neglected Raoul de Chagny as we find out exactly what has been going through his mind this past month. Brownie points to those who catch the nod to Mandy the O's "An Eternity of This" (stop it, Cat, I can see you rolling your eyes all the way across the pond).

* * *

**Chapter 21**

**Ultimata

* * *

**  
Raoul de Chagny stood uncomfortably in his brother's dim, elegant study, turning the brim of his hat in his hands. From behind the desk, his brother looked at him with affected indulgence. A muscle twitched once in a hard jaw.

"Sit down, Raoul."

The younger man gave a great sigh. "Philippe, what is this about?"

"_Sit down_. Our butler tells me that you have not been sleeping well."

Raoul bristled, dropping the useless top hat on a nearby chaise, leaving sweat stains on the dark leather. "They have no need to be concerned over my welfare. I am performing all of my duties perfectly, none of our acquaintances have noticed a single—"

"You know very well what this is about. You can't expect that no one in this household would notice."

Raoul stiffened. "I have no idea what you are referring to."

His brother's glare felt as if it were bruising his spine. "I have never insulted your intelligence, Raoul. Lend me the same courtesy."

"I sleep on a sofa outside her door! You _know_ that. And if you have permitted people to think any different—"

"I can do nothing about what other people think. Use your head, damn it; how could it look any other way?"

"But _you_ know."

Philippe gave a great, suffering sigh. "Yes, brother, I know you too well to suspect you. I do not doubt your virtue." Raoul stood a bit taller, proud to have pleased him. "But," he continued. "That does not mean that I can allow this to continue."

Raoul had been lowering himself into the chair and now stood up furiously. "You cannot allow me!" he roared with reckless abandon. "I am twenty-one years old—"

"And you are my dependant. I am responsible for your livelihood and for your behavior. And I cannot have—"

"I can buy my own property under my own name. I am sure that Christine and I could live quite comfortably on our own, away from the hypocrisy and inconsideration that I see—"

"What has gotten into you?"

"—here. Last week…I discovered our cook wearing one of those atrocious half-masks from the Opera House, I nearly fired him on the spot. If Christine had seen him…"

Philippe half-stood from his chair, supporting his thin legs with a hand upon an armrest. His pale face flaming and collecting in two bright spots of color. "I will not let you abandon our family," he said firmly.

Something seemed to be unraveling inside of Raoul, all the things that he had not said and could not say and was too heartbroken or angry to say for so long had built up within him like a great inferno and now he could not control himself. "What _family_? There is only _you_, brother, and I am your _dependant_, as you have put so succinctly. I'm sure that Christine and I could live quite comfortably on our own away from your charitable care—"

"I will not allow my only brother to become a social outcast for the sake of a painted opera diva!"

Raoul stiffened. He had never struck his brother before, but he could see himself doing so now without regret. White-hot sparks began to dance before his eyes. Of all the hateful things he could have said!

Philippe suddenly began coughing, the sounds hard and pained as he doubled over the desk, placing a hand on the top to steady himself. Raoul watched him gasping for breath, the lines on his once-handsome face deeper and prominent than ever before. He looked as if he had suddenly aged twenty years.

The anger drained out of him as fast as it had come and he stepped forward to help Philippe into his chair. His brother did not deserve his anger. No one that he loved deserved his anger, yet he seemed unable to cause them anything but pain.

The Comte looked up at him in undisguised surprise. Then he smiled wanly as his trembling sides sank into the cushion. "I apologize for what I said, but I shall not take it back. She is not the sister-in-law I would have chosen."

Raoul blinked in surprise. "What?"

He reached forward, wincing as he moved his shoulder, and laid a rough and weathered hand over Raoul's. "Marry her, Raoul. End this life of secrecy and shame. I will not promise to welcome her with open arms, but I will be as civil and courteous as befits my brother's wife."

"Philippe…"

His brother withdrew his hand and began rooting around the depths of his jacket pocket for a vial of laudanum he always kept about his person. "You have one month, Raoul, then I will be forced to turn the girl out. Do not disappoint me." The cold detachment returned to his voice as the laudanum did its soothing work.

"It's not so easy…"

"Of course it is. You love her. That's more than most of us can say about our choices. Be thankful for it."

Raoul shook his handsome head. He would never understand.

_It was not so easy…

* * *

_

Christine had not been talkative after returning from the dinner with the Fells. Had he expected differently? She had not spoken a word during dinner either. She had smiled at Raoul as he helped her out of his carriage and kissed him on the cheek before retiring to her cottage.

His first impulse was to follow her. He would have to tell her eventually of the arrangements he had made with Dr. Fell for her treatment. He would have to explain himself and beg her forgiveness at the same time. Not for the first time, Raoul wondered if he had made the right decision. He turned dejectedly away from the cottage and walked back up to the house.

It was Sunday and the servants had been given the day off and only silence greeted him as he entered the mansion. The halls he had walked through every day as a child were drenched in shadow and unfamiliar, and he walked through them quickly, trying not to look at the portraits on either side. He had the strange notion that they were moving. He breathed a sigh of relief as he entered the warm glow of the pantry.

Throwing open the cupboards, his hands closed around the first thing they found, a bottle of red wine. He spent a fruitless five minutes attempting to open it, his fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar cork. The grandfather clock against the wall creaked as the weights inside shifted.

"Allow me."

Raoul started, barely kept the bottle from slipping out of his hand, and looked up to see the Duchess de Londres standing in the doorway. "Clarice…" he said, flabbergasted, and then looked down to see his hands wound protectively around the wine.

He set the bottle down immediately, the glass bottom clinking against the walnut-stained countertop. "This isn't what it looks like, I mean, I don't…I wasn't…"

Clarice smiled humorlessly. "Do not worry, Raoul, you hardly looked like you had extensive experience in the matter." She walked towards him, her heels clicking like a soldier's on the parquet floor.

Raoul didn't know whether to be sullen or relieved as Clarice picked up the bottle, applying pressure to the cork at an angle and deftly twisting it out with perfectly rehearsed motions. Something about her wasn't quite right. It stroked his mind with maddeningly uncertainty as he attempted to figure out what it was.

"I apologize if I startled you," the Duchess said. "Such was not my intention. However, there was no one to answer the door when I knocked, and, finding I unlocked, I let myself in. You truly should be more cautious."

"I apologize…" Raoul said off-handedly, still battling with his curiosity. He placed a glass on the counter and watched as Clarice poured it a quarter-full of crimson liquid. Then, as a second thought, she filled the rest of the glass with water from a pitcher. The liquid faded into a rosy pink. A few droplets of water splashed onto her velvet sleeve, and the Duchess brushed them away with a sniff.

In an instant, Raoul knew what it was that troubled him so. The Duchess's movements were stiff and her face drawn with seriousness. She reminded him in that instant, of Philippe, of his unbending formality, his sheen of propriety.

There was a reason Raoul associated with the Fells more often than any other noble family. It was the same reason that his other acquaintances regarded them with guarded disdain. It was no secret that the Fells had bought their way into nobility. This was not uncommon and would not have been frowned upon had they not chosen to consistently reject invitations to the most popular parties in town. Or to frequently leave dinners early if they found the conversation dull. Although they were perfectly respectable people at first meeting, the first impression hardly lasted long.

The Duchess…Clarice, especially, was always a popular subject of gossip among the noblewomen. Raoul had not seen her initial arrival at the Opera House, but he knew every detail about how she had rolled up her sleeves and removed her suffocating sunbonnet. In the middle of the summer! How dare she?

Raoul would nod and smile at the outraged gossipers and watch as they sniffed in their offense. They would grow to become like Philippe, bearing their societal burdens in silence and blowing their troubles away in clouds of cigar smoke. A noble was blessed from birth; he never had cause to complain.

Now as Raoul watched as the Duchess sniffing at the moisture staining her sleeve, her back ramrod-straight and her eyes distant, he felt something inside him shrinking away.

The Duchess handed him his glass of diluted wine. She spoke suddenly and without preamble. "Do you intend to stand by your decision to commit Mademoiselle Daae to my husband's care?"

"Is there a reason I should not?"

She seemed to hesitate, and her next words were stilted and pained. "I spoke with him tonight after you had left. We both agreed that Christine's condition is easily remedied, in a way that would require no treatment and no potential embarrassment." She looked up to see Raoul looking pointedly at her. "You must know what ails Christine. She has been alone all her life, and she is alone again now. Whenever she allowed herself to love another, they left her and broke her heart. Her father died when she was but a child and Erik—" She stopped, her face stricken.

"Erik?"

"Please monsieur, no one must know what I have said," she said hoarsely.

"The Phantom has a name?" His voice rose as a strange emotion surged through his veins. "You knew all along and you said nothing!"

"Yes, Raoul, I knew, but only after…after there was nothing that could be done."

He stared at her with utter disbelief as he brought the glass to his lips at last.

The Duchess' face was calm once more, though affected with great sadness. "Erik is dead," she said.

Raoul's lips froze against the rim and he swallowed painfully. Even diluted, the wine burned his throat on its way down. He wiped his mouth as if he had just been sick. "How…how do you know?"

"That night, when your carriage picked me up from outside the Opera House. I told you that…I could not find him. I lied. I…I saw blood upon the floor of his home and I saw his body floating upon the surface of the lake. I came back the day after when I was alone and I buried him."

If only Raoul had known how the lies tumbled out of her mouth like water! If only he had known the desperate purpose behind her tale, he would not have gone as pale as a mourner. His body would not have rocked with someone he couldn't tell if it were sadness or triumph.

"Why did you—"

"He died before the mob ever reached his house, I trust I don't need tell you what that means…Christine did not need to know. She does not need to know now. Let her know as painlessly as possible. Place an announcement inside the newspaper, perhaps."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Her eyes were hard. "Do you truly need to ask? You do not conceal your desires well, Raoul. You love her and have always loved her. But you saw her make a choice in the cellars that night that you believed you could never reverse. That is foolish, Raoul. Please, do not let her be alone for the rest of her life; you are all that she has now."

"I don't understand."

"Do you see Christine as a problem?"

The shock and offense was plain in his tone. "No!"

"Then stop treating her like one. Marry her, Raoul. Be her shelter and light and everything else that you once promised."

He swayed against the countertop, pressing his back against the solid wood for support. "It's not so easy…"

"No doctor can do for Christine what you can, Raoul." Her voice was growing in intensity, tinged with nervousness and guilt.

Raoul, shaking his head in grief, did not notice. "But I have done this to her. With my thoughtlessness and my desire for vengeance, I have hurt her as deeply as Erik has. Perhaps a doctor could—"

"Not my husband!"

She fell suddenly silent, her face going even whiter. Raoul stared in open-mouthed shock as a storm of raging emotion played across her features. It lasted a mere second. Unlike himself, the Duchess was quite skilled at manipulating her emotions. The storm faded from her face as easily as if she had drawn a shade. Raoul wondered if he had imagined everything.

"What I mean is," Clarice said, the stiff indifference back in her voice, "my husband is accustomed to dealing with patients with serious maladies. I do not believe that Christine requires that sort of care, it would be best if she did not stay."

The edge of the countertop was digging painfully into Raoul's back, but he did not move. He could not find the strength to move. Everything he had been told washed through his mind like a bitter wave. He could only think that just outside of the mansion, Christine slept, blissfully unaware that half of her world had just crumbled. He swallowed painfully. _How would he ever tell her? He who had been largely responsible for everything that had occurred?_

Clarice watched the young man before her, his head bowed beneath an invisible burden, with a newfound dawning respect. The boy had been forced to grow up so fast, with nothing to save him from the cold, unfeeling existence of his brother other than the fond memories of those years by the sea with a young angel. Yet he had resisted.

He would be strong enough now. He had to be. Only he could save Christine now. Erik might as well have been dead. And her husband was planning…she did not want to think it. Neither did she want to think of how the road to hell had always been paved with good intentions.

* * *

Raoul emerged from the memory as if he were surfacing from deep water. For the first time, he thought of his former rival. He thought of …Erik. And he understood for the first time the deep and unbearable pain the Phantom must have felt, to want someone as much as life itself and yet to be denied. Perhaps for a foolish reason…his own cowardice could not be so different from Erik's. He wondered what Erik would have done now had he lived.

* * *

At that very moment, Erik was not, surprisingly, thinking of Christine at all. For the past three days his life had been remarkably predictable. This day was no different. As the night spread its fingers of dusk over a rosy sunset, Erik sat alone inside his room with the drapes pulled firmly over the windows to the outside world.

He saw nothing before him but his left arm lying upon the table, the fingers curled limply around the simple porcelain tea vessel.

Several minutes after he had finished its contents, the wave of anger at his stupidity had hit him hard. But several anxious hours later when the contents of the drink proved itself to be nothing more than a soothing concoction of chamomile, he had taken the cup in his hand, smiling at his own foolishness.

The vessel fit almost perfectly in the crook of his fingers. He had placed the cup back atop the table and used his right hand to curl the limp fingers of his left hand around the cup. The world outside ceased to exist as he continued bending and unbending his fingers around the white porcelain, rubbing sensation into the cold, waxen appendages. Holding his fingers around the cup, he lifted both hands high in an imaginary toast.

He moved only once, to close the drapes when the brightness of the afternoon sun once again became too bright for his eyes.

He imagined that each of his fingers were stiff with fatigue. He imagined himself wincing in pain as he moved each one, the creaking joints complaining as they began to function once again. He imagined them shivering from the coldness of the weak blood moving sluggishly towards his nails. He imagined the bones melting from the heat of the hot liquid the vessel had once held. He imagined anything in the world to shake off the awful sensation of nothingness in his paralyzed limb. He had always been able make anything happen if he really wanted to. This time should be no different.

* * *

Downstairs, Clarice happily accepted the soft bundle of folded cloth from the young woman at the front door. "Thank you, Genevieve," she said. The woman curtseyed and smiled brightly as her customer looked over the shirts with approval. "He will be most pleased."

Clarice climbed the stairs slowly and when she reached Erik's door, her hands were too full to knock. Turning the handle quickly, she let herself into the room just in time to hear Erik shout loudly in pain.

The bundle dropped to the floor with a soft thump as Clarice started in concern. The man looked quickly at her, anger, guilt, and embarrassment all present in his expression. "Erik…" she noticed that his cheeks were red from exertion, drops of perspiration visible upon his malformed brow. "Are you, are you alright?"

"Do I appear to be in intense pain?" he managed through clenched teeth. When she did not respond, he turned furiously back to his task, his right hand in a death's grip around his left hand holding the teacup. "As well that I should. For I am. My fingers scream as they are forced to live again. They do not remember the music they once played, only the lives they took. It is fitting then that they should refuse to take back their own lives."

He stood up abruptly, coming towards Clarice with great strides, who backed away slightly against the door. She had not seen this fire in his eyes in so long…

The fingers of his left hand dangled limply at his side, like those of a broken puppet. She was looking at them calmly, with no pity in her eyes. And he knew this, and he hated her then for her damnable calm, for her seeming acceptance of his fate.

"Who said anything about acceptance?"

Erik flinched, unnerved that she could have read his thoughts so easily. She laughed humorlessly, picking up the set of folded shirts from the ground and pushing them into his arms. "I know you too well to treat you as a common patient, Erik. I will not attempt to dissuade you."

He deposited the bundle of cloth onto an empty sofa. "And yet you still believe it is…impossible."

"I have seen too much of life to believe that so easily." Her eyes grew solemn and serious. "But I shall not lie, Erik, your wound is horrific and it is…extremely unlikely."

He scoffed. "I shall toast your pessimism with a cup of chamomile when the day comes. I can afford to wait."

"You can only wait one month at most."

His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "How do you mean? What happens after that?"

"Then…" he could see her attempting to swallow the words, but some unseen force pushed the words out of her mouth. "Then the Vicomte de Chagny will make Christine Daae his bride."

Erik was very still for a very long time. When he spoke again, his words were trembling with affected indifference. "I fail to see how my getting well has anything to do with that happy occasion."

"She…she thinks you are dead, Erik. Raoul will have told her."

"And why would he think that?"

Clarice closed her eyes. "Because I told him." Her eyes were tightly shut and she could not see him freeze. She could not see every vestige of color drain from his face. Nor did she want to.

"Is this a lie, _Madame_? Or do the lies lie in everything you have ever said to me in the past?"

"Erik, I…" Her eyes flew open as she felt him seize her left shoulder with bruising force.

"Is this why you have accepted me so willingly into your home? So that I would be conveniently out of the way? So that you could play matchmaker for the more deserving!"

She pushed away at him violently. He did not release his grip. "You were as good as dead, Erik! You proved it that night when you shrank once again behind that pitiful mask. You could think of nothing but your loss. You could not have helped Christine if my husband had chosen to…_change_ her. I could not have helped her. What else was I to do but push her into the arms of her last protector?"

"And yet you trust your husband implicitly now!"

"Because he's changed, Erik! Because…because I was wrong. I did not believe in him and I did not believe…in you, Erik. I did not believe that good could still exist inside a soul twisted beyond repair—"

"You _married_ him."

"And I was under no delusion that he would abandon his ways. Merely that he would not involve me. That he would not attempt to _change_ me. It was a twisted and perfect union of angel and demon. This changed when I believed he would _treat_ Christine…Christine who had become so close as to nearly become a part of me. And you as well, Erik…yes, you as well. When he went after you…" She gave a frustrated sigh. "All I did was make a damnable mess of things."

Erik felt the haze of blind fury slowly fading away. He did not realize that the fingers of his right hand were still digging into her shoulder until he felt her smooth hands pulling them away.

"I shall say one thing. There is certainly nothing wrong with the strength of your other arm."

He took a step back. "What do believe that I can _do_? I am a pitiful creature of darkness wanted dead by half of Paris."

Her fingers closed around the rim of the teacup and she slid it towards him on the table. "Prove that you can change that. Prove that you are not the man you once were." She smiled wryly. "It shouldn't be too hard. For I can avow that you are not."

He turned the teacup round and round in the fingers of his right hand. Anger still remained in his face, but it was grudgingly giving way to the unavoidable hunger and excitement. He had never been a man to turn down a challenge. And yet… "Am I to understand that you are using me to clean up your mess?"

The corners of her mouth twitched in a way that reminded him unnervingly of himself. "If you have any complaints, do let me know."

He was silent. "Christine…do you mean to say that she…"

"I'd rather that you found out for yourself."

His lips trembled with the weight of all the things he wished to say, but in the end he was silent. He watched instead his fingers bending and unbending around the teacup.

"Oh, by the way, Erik." He looked up at her and she smiled broadly. "When the time comes…I prefer spiced cinnamon over chamomile."


	22. Fledgling Hope

A/N: Well now…doesn't this look like a ghost from the past? Nearly four months ago I got hit with the nastiest bout of writer's block I had ever experienced and it never seemed to let go. But I never forgot about this story and I don't intend to forget it now. I hereby promise that I will never take more than one month between chapters, and there shouldn't be too many more of them anyways. Thank you to everyone who is still reading this story. It's people like you that keep and my monstrous offspring going!

One benefit of taking such a long time off is that I had a chance to read over some of my writing and I realized that one of my biggest weaknesses is unnecessary vagueness. I've tried to improve this. This is, after all despite the many layers, just a love story. Our characters wouldn't have it any other way.

PLOT RECAP: After Clarice rescued Erik from the mob at the Opera House by beating (literally) some sense into his head, he decided to stay with her and her husband, Hannibal, until he could find the strength to move on. Complications arise when Raoul, fearing for Christine's dying spirit, puts his young fiancée into the care of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, known to the rest of Paris as Monsieur Fell, the Duc de Londres. With the lives of both Erik and Christine in his hands, Dr. Lecter unleashes his own brand of merciless medication, to nearly disastrous consequences. Christine becomes even more withdrawn, refusing to speak to anyone of what goes on behind the closed doors of the doctor's office. And after Hannibal injects him with a detox mix, Erik goes through a horrific phase of withdrawal, nearly tearing his arm open from his hallucinations. Clarice saves his life and in the confrontation afterwards, she and Hannibal nearly come to blows before he completely breaks down and begs for her forgiveness.

Although Clarice and Hannibal have reconciled, Erik has lost the use of his dominant hand, his left hand, after tearing apart his nerves. Raoul has been given an ultimatum by his older brother and comte, Philippe. He must marry Christine within a month or he will have her thrown out. Raoul is in a dilemma because he believes Erik to be dead…the night after he had placed Christine's cares into Dr. Lecter's hands, Clarice had visited him, begging him to take Christine away, going even so far as to lie and pronounce the Phantom to be dead so there would seem to be obstacles in his way. Instead, Raoul is seized by guilt. He blames himself for what happened in the cellars of the Opera and he blames himself for the Phantom's "death", he tells Christine nothing. And while Christine agonizes over the fate of her Angel, she refuses to believe him dead.

The board is set…let the games begin.

* * *

**Chapter 22**

**Fledgling Hope**

Three weeks passed by without incident.

Three weeks was how long Raoul needed to work up his pitiful reserve of courage to tell Christine of his brother's ultimatum.

Her face was calm after he finished his confession. She did not gasp in shock, she did not act indignant, and she did not smile at him. Raoul began to feel nervous.

Finally she nodded from where she sat in her armchair in the sitting room of the cottage. "What must I do?"

Raoul felt as if his legs had been cut out from under him and he fell to his knees before her, taking her hand in his own. "Must! My darling, you shall do what you wish and nothing else!" He continued, talking very fast. "You hate this life, I see it in your eyes, their light is gone. The high brows and aristocracy are not for you; I have tried my best, but they will not see past your name and your birth, they refuse! You wish to perform. You wish to continue to pour your soul into music, and you want to see the angels weep from it."

Christine blinked, she knew there were tears in her eyes. "You presume too much about me, Raoul."

"I _know_ you, Christine, you have been a part of my life for so long, how could I help but to know you? Music…beauty…Christine, that is you. That is what I love about you."

Her eyes widened at his words spoken in a more earnest manner than he had used for weeks. "But Raoul, I cannot go back…"

"Not to the Garnier, we would never dream of it. But it is not the only Opera in Paris…and Paris is not the only city in the world. The whole world, Christine, we could go anywhere you liked!"

"And your family? Would we be leaving them behind?"

"My family is only my brother. And he does not need me, he has made that clear. Just think, we could leave all of this behind…"

"Raoul, no."

"…never looking back. We could start anew!"

"Raoul, _no_!" He looked up, shocked, as he realized that she was gripping his hand almost painfully with her own. The tears that had only been forming within her eyes were now glistening and ready to fall. "No, Raoul. No more…No more running. I don't think I could bear it."

The young aristocrat looked up into his beloved's eyes, stunned by what he saw there: unbearable sadness and a resigned, inviolate determination.

The next morning, Christine met him outside the mansion's front door. He stopped dead at the sight of her. She was dressed in a freshly-starched gown of a stiff white color and a wine-red woolen cloak to keep her warm in the frigid winter. Her hair was bound tight atop her head and fashionable white gloves adorned her hands. She looked years older than she was.

When she saw him, she smiled. It was a smile of the old Christine. "Shall we go out?" she said.

They returned to the house just as the sun was dipping below the horizon. For the entire day they had browsed parks, storefronts, coffeehouses and made small talk with various worthy denizens of the city. For the entire day, not a single person had cast a reproachful eye upon Christine. Her hand that he held in his own felt like wax as they walked up the frozen dirt path to the mansion.

Philippe's carriage was parked outside the front door, and as Raoul watched, the Comte came out of the house and walked towards his vehicle. His brother stopped when he saw them on the path, frowning in confusion at Christine's appearance. He placed his top-hat on his head as they stopped in front of him.

"I am going out of town on business, Raoul."

"I see."

"There's been some disagreement over the shipment of fish from Brittany. I need to leave tonight."

"I see."

"I should return before the end of the month."

"…I see."

"Dear brother, I believe that I can trust you to look after things in my absence. And that _everything_ goes…according to plan?"

Raoul saw red. "My _fiancée_ is standing right here beside me, _dear_ brother, and we will not stand for your low-browed insults, you pompous coward." And with that he turned and nearly dragged Christine into the house with him.

"Oh Raoul…"

"No! He deserved it and more! How dare he insult you like that with you standing right there, as if you were some…burden to be taken care of like that rotten shipment of fish in Brittany. You are no one's burden, you are…are family."

"Raoul…"

"Please Christine," – he was fumbling in his pockets now – "never think of yourself as any different. I never have." The light from the ring glinted off the tears in her eyes. _Oh Christine, Christine…I cannot bear to see you cry. Especially not because of him again. That is why I cannot tell you what I know you deserve to know. Can you understand, Christine? Can you one day forgive me for this deception?_

She took the ring and placed it on her finger, and then she was kissing tears from his cheeks that he hadn't even known were falling. If he had not buried his head so desperately against her neck, if he not wanted to block out everything reminding him of his own cowardice, then he would have realized that she held him, not as one would hold a lover, but as one would cradle a weeping, bleeding child.

* * *

The hand that held the needle full of straw-colored liquid did not tremble as it flicked the needle-point, watching treacherous bubbles of air floating to the top. A bit of the liquid erupted like a fountain from the tip as the hand pushed the air from the syringe.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Would I be doing this if I were not?

"No…but I question if you are doing this for the girl's good, or for your own."

The fingers clenched. "What is that intended to mean?"

"Are you not simply trying to prove yourself right?"

"I already know that I am right."

"What if she is not strong enough?"

"She's strong enough. I know."

"How? How can you possibly be sure?"

"Because I know myself. And Christine is but a shadow of myself, still trapped in the darkness. For while I had years to gradually learn of the evils of the world, she had only one night."

"So you can help her."

"No. But I know who can."

Hannibal was silent for a second, but he already knew who she meant. "The word 'hypocrite' comes to mind at this moment."

Clarice hid the syringe within one of her ample sleeves. "Oh pish posh, Hannibal. I am not a nastily temperamental old man, and I can do her no harm."

* * *

Clarice pushed the door to Hannibal's study open to find Christine already seated, or to be more accurate, _lying_ upon the long sofa. Clarice was surprised, for she knew that the young girl was prone to shuffling her feet when she first arrived, twisting the straps of her bag nervously until Hannibal handed her a glass of water and bade her to sit.

She had always been a flighty child but only since that night in the cellars had she begun to be afraid to speak to anyone. She treaded around conversation as if it were broken glass, as if any false move would send the biting shards in their direction. This young girl, who had devastated two men so terribly without intention now feared making the same mistake again. She feared it so much that she now shunned interaction of any kind except what occurred under this roof. Christine always left with a strange whimsical smile on her face after meeting with the doctor.

Oh, Clarice had listened very carefully to every single meeting that took place under her roof. She knew of the hours that Hannibal spent talking to her in a low voice, simply encouraging her to speak. And then of the many hours afterwards, of encouraging her to speak of anything that would not make her weep.

But to see her now, waiting so serenely, so calmly. Her white gown fell gracefully upon the sofa, without a wrinkle in sight, her bag clasped loosely in her hands upon her chest.

Christine realized then that the reason for the tranquility was because Christine was asleep. She smiled slightly as she brushed a lock of hair from the girl's face and felt her forehead. At least she appeared healthier than last time. She shook her shoulder gently.

"Christine, wake up."

The girl made a sound halfway between a growl and a mewl and Clarice had to bite back a smile. She felt as Christine's breathing became less regular and her arms began to stiffen. She was conscious but not truly awake.

Christine's head rolled towards the hand upon her shoulder. "…Angel?"

Clarice blinked. Well…some things had not changed. She sighed. "No Christine, not an angel. It's just me. Wake up, my dear, it isn't even yet dinnertime."

Christine blinked in confusion as she swung her feet to the ground, clutching her bag tighter in her hands. She looked even more confused when Clarice motioned that she should slide to one side of the sofa to make room for another person.

"Dr. Fell, well he…he usually sits over there and I lie here alone. It is better for my treatment, he says. He says that I should become accustomed to my own company and…" She trailed off.

Clarice laughed humorlessly. "Subtlety has never been one of my husband's better qualities. But, I thought that we could try something new today. Just between the two of us, would you like to try?"

"What is it?"

"Do you trust me, Christine?"

The question was unexpected and Christine pursed her lips for only a brief moment. "Of course I do."

Even Clarice was stunned by her instinctual response. "Why?"

"Do you remember the first time that we met? No, not that initial brief interview in my dressing room; that was no more than an awkward mess of fumbling propriety and female gossip. I meant when we truly met. It was after the Pha—…after he brought me back to my dressing room and I awoke to find myself alone. I screamed from the fear of being alone and you took me in your arms without a word. It didn't matter that you hardly knew me, that I was not your daughter, you took it upon yourself to care for me then. And again when you accompanied me to the graveyard. I didn't deserve any of it, but you did it nonetheless."

Clarice looked at her with a mixture of confusion and awe. Those had not been the words of a child. Christine was becoming a more confusing paradox by the day. Fueled by some furious resolve, the young girl was forcing herself to grow, but haphazardly and with unpredictable results, like a fledgling flapping from sapling to sapling.

"I am honored that you think of me in such a way, my dear. I would like to ask you to do something for me then."

"Anything."

"I want you to believe that we are alone. That there is no world outside of this room and no people besides the two of us and those who come to visit us when we wish them to."

Clarice frowned slightly in confusion but she said, "Okay."

"You must promise to completely forget everything except what I have just told you, do you understand?" _Forget everything, blot the vicious world out of mind. And then here, away from your past, away from your guilt and your pain, I may help accomplish what I should have done for you long ago._ "Now Christine, I want you to think for me, who are your friends?"

"Mmmm, well Meg, I suppose."

"Meg is currently rehearsing for the Opera's next show. Can you think of someone else? Someone else who would never fail to have the time for you?"

_Yes_. "No."

"Are you sure?"

_My Angel_. "My…my father. But—"

"That's perfect," she said quietly over Christine's protests. "Now tell me, if he were to meet you here, would that make you feel better?"

_More than anything_. "But my father is…"

"You have not forgotten your promise, have you, Christine?"

"No…"

"Do you wish to see your father, Christine?"

_Oh Papa…_ And her eyes suddenly brightened as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. "Oh yes, I dearly wish that Papa would arrive."

Clarice smiled so warmly that Christine could not help but smile back. "Just sit here for a moment longer then, my dear. Wishes take a little time to travel."

The needle was so thin that Christine did not feel it enter her arm. Clarice patted her comfortingly on her upper arm, being sure to wipe away the tiny drop of blood.

"Your father will be here very soon. Are you excited to see him?"

The girl clapped her hands excitedly. "Yes, I can't wait to see Papa!"

Clarice got up then and took the bag out of Christine's hand. Removing a thin tissue from inside she wiped away the sheen of cold sweat that had collected on the young girl's forehead before pushing the bag under the sofa.

She walked to the door and opened the door to go. She turned back and looked once more at the starry-eyed child sitting on the sofa, her entire body nearly humming from joyful anticipation. "I am leaving the room now, Christine. When the door opens again, it will be your Papa that comes to see you." And as an afterthought, she added, so softly that Christine surely could not hear her. "Remember your friends, Christine…there was one man you did not even think to mention before another."

* * *

As Clarice was closing the study door upon Christine, a door was opening upstairs, the knob of the locked door turning like a well-oiled machine under Hannibal's hand after knocking had produced no response. The room was dark when he entered. Erik had pulled the heavy curtains tightly across the windows and needle-thin slashes of light peeking around the edges were the only signs of the bright afternoon sun.

It took him only a moment more to realize the sound that he was hearing. Chopin's _Fantasie Impromptu_ continued its slow soulful rhythmas he approached. As Hannibal drew closer, it became obvious that Erik was cradling his left hand in his right, using his good hand to move the fingers of his dead limb to depress the keys on the piano. His pair of hands moved through the piece at a respectable pace, although the tempo remained half of what it should have been.

Erik did not look up from the keyboard as he spoke. "Three weeks," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I have been practicing this piece for three weeks. I have now regained the skill of a small child."

"And your temperament?"

Erik's hands stilled over the piano. He grinned and Hannibal could see a shred of earnest within the familiar sarcastic twitch of his lips. "Improving by the day."

"A true miracle indeed."

The coldness returned to Erik's face in an instant. "Have you come to dispense anything other than you withering formalities? Or shall I continue attempting to repair what you have broken?"

"I predicted that the improvement in temperament would not last," Hannibal said coolly.

A discordant crash ripped through the room as Erik let his dead hand fall heavily atop the keys. He closed his eyes and a nerve twitched in his hand. "I had believed that years of dealing with incompetent managers had made me immune to human irritation. How ironic that such an intelligent specimen as you should prove me wrong."

Hannibal merely smiled. Erik's eyes were closed, and so he could not see that the twitching nerve was in his limp left hand. "I had a summer home in Paris."

"What?" Erik's eyes blinked open.

"You wonder how I managed to play Doctor Death in America while simultaneously discussing architectural specimens with you in Paris. I divided my summers between Paris and Italy."

"Why are you telling me these things?"

"Because you deserve to know the full story. And all good stories require some background information. Clarice and I left America for Europe within a month's time after she left her traitorous family for me. We preferred not to live in a place that in a hundred years believed itself to have lived an eternity."

Erik's eyes were fixed at a spot about two inches above the keyboard. "And you believe that we have? Let me tell you that we have learned precious little in our centuries of existence. In America they would not care about my face."

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. "Truly? I would warn against placing things you've never met upon a pedestal. The truth may disappoint you. It certainly did Christine." The other man winced and grunted. "Ironic, isn't it, Erik? But trust me. I believed the same unflattering depictions of our dear European continent after the Crimean War. Yes, Erik, I was born in Europe, in Lithuania, a little country that you have likely heard nothing of, for we were serfs of the Russian behemoth. We adopted their language and customs under the pain of extinction. We did not ask to be part of them, nor did we ask the British and French to ravage our country on their way to save their Holy Land from the heathen Russians. An entire people, nearly wiped out for the sake of the right to worship saints on the best plots of ground.

"And so I fled for America after the Catholics brought the hand of God and the lust of man upon my father, my mother, and my baby sister. It was, shall I say, a life-changing experience for a boy of ten years? And so I spent my life taking back what God had taken away: wealth, fame, women, fine art…if God could not be bothered to take care of my miserable existence then surely what I was doing could not be bothering him. Is any of this beginning to sound familiar, Erik?"

Erik was staring at the other man with intense fascination. "So why did you stop?"

Hannibal smiled grimly. "What makes you so certain that I have?"

Erik matched Hannibal's smile. "Her."

"What would a heartless murderer know of love?"

Erik folded his trembling hands in his lap. "Are you referring to me or yourself?"

A familiar gleam appeared in Hannibal's eyes. "Perhaps I was wrong to say that we were nothing alike. After all, both of us are ugly beyond human comprehension, in one way or another. We are both treated as monsters, why attempt to act as a human? We are not human, Erik, so why bother acting like them?"

Erik's hands were clenched into hard fists, but his eyes were clear and bright and he turned them upon the other man now. "What keeps you going? What do you want, Hannibal?"

There was a hint of admiration in his smile. His patient had learned restraint. "The same thing that you do, Erik. I have to know that there is something out there that is greater than man…and more merciful than God."

"If you say 'love' I think I'll vomit."

Hannibal laughed shortly and did not miss a beat. "Clarice entered my life courtesy of a well-conceived plan by the only family she had ever known. Her mother died in childbirth and she had been robbed of her father at a very young age; her father was a frontman for the Pinkertons. This meant that he was one who charged into gunfire first to be shot so that others would be spared. He might have been a hero to his little girl, but to the rest of the world, he was expendable meat.

"So he died, which was not terribly surprising. What was surprising was how several witnesses had seen his partner pull father Starling in front of him as shield when it happened. What should have died as a statistic ballooned into a nasty scandal, and the respected Agency couldn't live with that. So in apology, they took young Starling under their wing. They trained the little nestling and held her up to the public eye for approval of their charity, all the while chopping away at her feet for she was nothing but a thorn in their side.

"Clarice never tells this version of events. Her story is that she entered the Agency of her own worth and they drove her out from jealousy. The truth is much less exciting, and also, she does not like to brag."

"I fail to see how."

"It takes great courage to persevere in the face of impossible odds."

Erik snorted. "Or great foolishness."

"Is it a quixotic quest to seek what you desire most despite how the world may turn against you?"

"Riddles again, Hannibal?" he growled.

"The Law Almighty grew desperate in the face of the killer who skinned his young victims. So desperate that they stooped to using a pretty face to try and loosen my all-knowing tongue. It would have been laughable if she had turned out as nothing but a mere plaything. But this waifish wide-eyed child who descended into Hell had the audacity to fight back. The innocence in her eyes merely reflected the gleam of a raging fire. And in the process of savoring her pain like the sweetest nectar, I grew ill. It was a malady of the mind that seeped into every part of me; it was a _disease_ that crippled my mind. I fought off my ridiculous ailment furiously, for a monster did not have a soul. But every time she appeared before my cell, every time her pain-filled eyes would flash to fight back, and later when I slipped my bars and hunted her in her own home…there was something absolutely beautiful about our mutual madness.

"It made no sense, I always hated weakness in others and had long depended on my own strength to see me through life. Do you see now, Erik? Do you see now how…different we are?"

Erik, whose eyes had slowly been clouding in thought; they hardened and snapped up to glare at the other man. "What?"

"You are such a sensible man, Erik. You would never fall victim to such a folly. Take Christine for example. I don't believe that anyone ever loved more than she loved you. She was a child, though, and still is, and she mistook her love for fear. And so did you."

"Goddamn it, Hannibal. I've had enough of—"

"Stop me when I speak falsely, Erik. There was no doubt about your own feelings towards her, though. But you were strong and refused to surrender to certain madness. To certain weakness. Your strength has always been your greatest ally. Your strength has allowed you to continue living as a human although all your life you have been treated as a monster. You could be feared instead, Erik, you could have people cowering at your feet. And for awhile, you did. But then you stopped. Frightening ballet rats is a poor substitute for the executions of Persia. You were so determined to be human despite your God-given destiny as a monster. If that is not perseverance in the face of impossible odds, I do not know what is."

"That's enough."

"It burns to be called 'monster', does it? But it is simply a label. A label has no power unless it holds some truth."

"I said that's enough!"

"Is it such a bad thing to be a monster, Erik? Fear turns the most powerful men into willing servants. Why not _hurt_ them, Erik, _truly_ hurt them like they've hurt you? Those scars on your body, you could revenge tenfold. Would that not be justice?"

Hannibal had not moved from his place on the other side of the room but Erik felt as if the other man was shaking him furiously. "Why are you saying these things, why do you insist? Does it still amuse you to dangle my life from your hands like a marionette? You've had your fun with me, isn't the result pleasing? To see me plod like an invalid upon an instrument that I have been able to play blindfolded since I was three? To see me unable to experience the only kind of love I have ever felt?" Erik let his immobile left hand fall from his lap to swing to his side.

"I am merely repeating everything you have thought all the years of your life. Why does your strength fail you before the truth?"

"Do you _enjoy_ this, Hannibal? Do you enjoy manipulating the thoughts and beliefs of others until they go mad?" Erik stopped talking suddenly and just as sudden, a wave of realization and self-loathing hit him with crippling force. Fresh upon the surface of his mind, he was seeing Christine kneeling beside him, clutching at his sleeve like a dying person and pleading for her lover's life. _Stop…_he knew she was saying in her mind_…Stop before I go truly mad_.

"I must admit, you walked into that trap much quicker than I expected even from you."

"Bastard…"

"Then again, I shouldn't be surprised, you were never difficult to irk." Erik felt a sensation like fire rushing through his body, ending in the tips of his fingers. "Where is your strength now, Erik? Do you have the strength now to lift a hand against me? Oh I forgot, you _can't_."

"That's ENOUGH!"

He felt a shattering blow to his head and when he could next see and think, Hannibal felt himself pinned against a wall with incredible force. His feet dangled several inches above ground and he found himself eye-level with a furious Erik. Intruding upon his dull, intoxicating sensation of self-satisfaction was the feeling of two bony hands wrapped around his throat and effectively crushing his windpipe. He hadn't even seen him move.

"Erik…" There was fire in his eyes, a victorious gleaming red. "Erik, let go of me…your hand will be in pain."

For one brief, terrifying moment, Erik did not understand, did not want to believe. Then a burning, tearing pain in his left arm ripped his hands away from the other man's throat and he stumbled back, a sensation like fire burning through his flesh as his nerves screamed and exulted in this cruel miracle.

He dimly felt pressure on his agonized arm and tried to fight back feebly. Hannibal clicked his tongue like a nurse and easily batted his hand away. "Don't squeeze your arm. Your nerves are adjusting to your explosive activity after such a long period of rest. The sensation of blood returning to your limb will be painful, do not prevent it."

Erik let himself be led over the armchair in the center of the room, only dimly noting that Hannibal could see in the dark nearly as well as he could. He felt himself sink into the cushion of the chair, and then he felt his burning left hand taken in two other hands, warm and rough hands as they massaged each finger, increasing the burning sensation in each appendage.

"A bastard I may be…but a rather effective bastard all the same."

Erik found that he could not speak.

"This was _impossible_, Erik. Impossible. Are you thoroughly convinced now? We do not live by what is _right_, what is virtuous, what is…expected. Could a person with a shred of pity in their hearts have said the things I did to make you angry enough to cause this miracle? I trust that you are aware that I meant every word."

"Cold-hearted bastard," Erik grunted again, but there was a victorious gleam in his eyes.

"Can the Vicomte de Chagny do what is necessary to tear the shell of the past from Christine's mind and care for her the rest of her days?"

"What?" Erik looked up in disbelief.

Hannibal sighed in exasperation. "I did not put so much effort into my dastardly plan so that you could crawl back into your rodent hole afterwards. She is waiting for you, Erik. She is," he repeated before the other man could protest. He sobered suddenly, his eyes now quiet. "I have done my part, Erik. I have apologized for my horrific manners as a host in the only way I believed to be just. It is not in my power to piece a life back together. I learned that long ago. I leave that to my better half."

"Hannibal…" Erik said, flexing the stiff fingers of his left hand. "Did you find what you wanted in this world?"

"I believe you already know the answer to that," he said quietly.

And then he moved from his place before Erik's chair and walked towards the door. "Goodbye Erik. I don't think that you will wish to see me again, but if you ever do…I have several new sketches of the finished Opera House that I think you might enjoy."

Erik heard the click of the door as it closed behind Hannibal Lecter. The man he loathed. The man he respected. The man for whom he felt that he could now shed silent tears of gratitude.

He didn't know how long he sat there, repeating the simple motion of curling his fingers into the palm of his hand, relishing the tingling feeling of living, breathing flesh. He did not miss the sound of the door opening and closing with a soft click, although he did not move from his seat. He heard the muffled sound of heels clicking upon the carpet and only then did his hand cease to move.

He saw a tray loaded with a dinner set down before him. He saw a few croissants, several pieces of fruit, what looked like a bowl of vegetable soup and a teacup with a porcelain teapot next to it. Simple foods, nothing that would require use of a knife and fork.

"Hannibal tells me that the two of you had a talk this evening."

"Indeed." Erik lifted the teapot with his right hand and poured a small measure of hot liquid into the cup. The scent of cinnamon and spice wafted through his nostrils.

"I am happy to see that there were no casualties."

"Only one."

"And what was that?"

"The impossible. Will you have a drink, madam?" And Erik lifted the teacup with his bandage-swathed left hand and pressed it into Clarice's nerveless fingers.

* * *


	23. Lethe's Memory

A/N: So this chapter is short! Much shorter than my regular length, but I felt I had to give you guys something since my one month time limit was up. You may expect chapters of this length from now on since I find they're much quicker to write! Muchos gracias to Cat for beta-reading!

**Chapter 23**

**Lethe's Memory

* * *

**

Christine was playing with one of her curls, wrapping her soft, springy hair around her fingers and moving the digits like little furry creatures when she heard the door open with a warm squeak of hinges.

The figure was tall enough that he had to stoop to reach the knob to close the door behind him. Then he turned, his blue eyes smiling warmly. "I'm back, my little Angel. Have you missed me?"

Christine and her fingers waved back with a grin. "Papa! How was the fair?"

"Lovely." Her father sat down next to her and pulled her feet into his lap as she giggled. "They gave me this as a token of their gratitude." He removed a flower from underneath his brown jacket and handed it to Christine. She turned it in her fingers; it was a dark red rose, its stem stripped of its thorns and tied with a black ribbon.

"Pretty!" She laughed, as she waved the long-stemmed flower like a magic wand.

"Not nearly as pretty as you, Lotte" he smiled, pressing a kiss to her cheek and blowing a tickling breath into her ear. She laughed even more when his hand left the side of her face holding a chocolate coin.

As she ate, her father settled himself next to her on the sofa and ran a comb through her hair. Her father had always combed her hair when she was small, laughing whenever Christine wrinkled her nose and said it was a girl's job. He had never shied away from tasks such as cooking or sewing either. Christine suspected that by performing these tasks, her father was reminded of the woman who should have been doing them instead. He always had a wistful smile on his face during these times.

For a long time they sat and talked about everything and nothing: the fair, their music, their next move, the next time that Raoul and she would play by the seaside, and Christine closed her eyes to savor the sensation of her father's hands lovingly stroking her long brown curls. Eventually Christine noticed that the coin had melted upon her tongue.

The chocolate left a bittersweet taste in her mouth. Christine swallowed hard. "Are you disappointed in me, Papa?"

She held her breath and her heart was hammering away in her chest. The sudden tension in the room that had previously held only laughter and love clung to her skin like clammy sweat. Her father fell quiet and put the brush down. He looked up at her.

"No." He gave her a small smile. "Only disappointed in myself."

"Papa, no…"

"I was selfish, Little Lotte. I refused to move on after your mother died, I didn't want to. So I tried to keep everything as it was before, I never moved a single thing out of our rooms, I never stopped playing the music we had made together, and I never helped you to grow out of the little girl that for your mother, you always will be. I failed you, Christine…Christine, do you dream often?"

The unexpected question jerked Christine out of the crushing terror she felt at seeing her father cry. "All the time," she said quietly.

Her father nodded, as if he knew very well what sort of dreams they were. "How do you feel in the morning?"

"Guilt…but it doesn't feel quite real. I don't feel the shame twist my heart into knots and I feel even more horrible because of it. It's like…it's like when you have a dream where you're killing your best friend, or stealing something, or, or…"

"Making love to someone you shouldn't?" her father asked, his lips moving into what may or may not have been a smile.

Christine flushed red as her eyes went wide. "Papa!"

The old man smiled in knowing amusement. "You are no longer asking the questions of a child, Christine."

Christine chewed on the end of a curl, and the flush did not leave her face. "When…when I wake up I feel so terribly guilty and so terribly relieved because it was just a dream. But the guilt doesn't go away because I know the thoughts must have come from _somewhere_ inside of me. But there is no one I could talk to, no one would understand." She shook her head and opened eyes filled with sudden weariness. "All of my life seems like a dream now, I've lost the memory. I have no idea anymore. But I cannot let it go because I know that awakening would hurt so much.

"Papa? I've heard people say that they look upon their past as if they were someone else's memories. But not me. For me, it's my life today that feels like scenes from someone else's life. I have been staying for over two months now at Raoul's estate. Can you believe it? Raoul, a vicomte! My God, it feels like the other day that I was standing with him in shame as his governess scolded us for swimming in the sea in our clothes."

Her father wrapped her in his arms and hugged her close. "I know, Christine, I know. I'm so sorry."

"Will it get easier…with time?"

"No one can stay the way they are, Christine." He had not answered her question. Instead he leaned forward and kissed her forehead before smoothing her baby-soft hair with his hand. He stood slowly.

Desperation seized her heart like a painful vise, and Christine felt the sound explode out of her. "NO! Papa, don't leave…"

She leaped forward and grabbed his hand desperately in both of hers. The hand was clammy and cold as death. Rather than shying away from the chilly touch, she pressed her face into his icy palm, warming the flesh with her cheek.

"Please…Papa. Don't leave me alone. I'm scared of the dark."

Her father did not attempt to disentangle his hands from her grasp. He crouched down next to her. "Christine, I love you."

Christine was shaking her head, the tears moving softly over her skin. Through her blurry vision, she saw him twisting the stem off from the rose. He placed the dark red flower gently in her curls.

He pulled away and placed both hands on either side of her face and tilted it up to meet his eyes. He wiped away a tear with his thumb. "I never forgot you, Christine. But you must not do the same for me. Paint a beautiful portrait in your mind and bury the rest deep in your heart. My love is a poor substitute for the love of one who is living."

Tears sprang once more to her eyes, but for a completely different reason. "He lives?"

Her father smiled. "Erik lives."

Christine bit her lip and kissed his cheek gently. The cheek felt cold and waxen, like the smooth surface of a mask.

When she next opened her eyes, she was alone in the room. She waited, trembling like a leaf in the breeze, but no tears came to her eyes. So she raised a hand to her hair, touching the flower and lifting it away with her hand. She gasped when she saw that the rose was as white as snow.

She had picked up this flower so many months ago from the foot of a tomb in a frozen graveyard. The little bud had long since opened its petals and withered away. Christine had pressed it carefully and kept it under her pillow ever since. She remembered how she had cherished it.

The petals were brittle and fragile now and their sweet scent had long since disappeared. She closed her hand around the flower tenderly and when she opened her fingers, only white powder remained.

So she let her hand fall to her side and only then did she remember the last thing her father had said. She tried it out in her voice. The name was foreign, dark and rich on her tongue.

"Erik…"

* * *

A refresher definition since everyone's forgotten Chapter 8 by now. In the Victorian language of flowers:

White rosebud: girlhood, a heart innocent of love


	24. In This Labyrinth

A/N: Waaaaaaaah, we're back! This was a hard chapter to write, but I do hope you'll like it. We're so close now, so very close…yet don't think I don't still have some surprises up my sleeves.

* * *

**Chapter 24**

**Into the Light**

The same time as Christine was purging her soul of the kindest demon to have ever haunted her, a rather intriguing scene was playing out not more than several feet above her head.

"God in heaven…"

"Please take the cup from me, madam. My hand grows weary." There was a healthy spark of humor in Erik's voice, an alien emotion Clarice had not heard in all the time she had known him. The shock was enough to make her close her fingers around the proffered vessel. Swiftly, she gulped some of the hot liquid and the heady flavor of cinnamon finally cleared her head enough to think.

Yet what could she think? She looked up to see a smirk with a perfection to rival Mona Lisa's plastered to Erik's face. Oh, he was enjoying this.

"Erik, I…"

"Yes, Madame la Duchess?"

As well he should enjoy this. "Congratulations." It sounded like the croak of a stunned reptile. "How…?"

"It seems as though your husband is useful for more than driving a man completely out of his mind. I mean to say, he still does…but then again, sometimes one needs to be forcibly removed from a prison of his own making, doesn't he?"

Clarice tore her mind away the image of the impossible scar twitching on Erik's left forearm as his perfectly functioning fingers scratched his exposed chin thoughtfully in time to process his final statement.

"Should not an escaped prisoner now collect his prize?"

"I don't understand."

She grinned inwardly. It was her turn now to shock him senseless. "Hannibal has handed you back your music and a clear mind as well. Now it is my turn to give you my gift. For did we not also have a wager of sorts, Erik?"

He stiffened so slightly Clarice might have believed she'd imagined it if she hadn't known better. "I don't believe I recall the circumstances."

"I have discovered something, Erik. The only times when you fail to be brilliant are when you're avoiding the subject. I am speaking, Erik, of your muse."

"Don't…"

"You've been to the edge of death and back, Erik. Surely you can't be afraid to speak of Christine." She continued speaking even as the man began to swell like an infuriated peacock. "She still believes you to be dead. Now is your chance to show her it is no longer true."

An unnatural fire was kindling in his amber eyes. "I have been dead to her ever since that night in the Opera House cellars. Why should it change now? In little more than a week's time she will marry the perfect man of her dreams. I have better things to do than intrude upon her life again."

"Erik, you are speaking to me, a woman who has known the kind of raging love that the rest of the world believes to exist only in storybooks. You don't fool me for a second. Is it so hard to admit that you'd die without her?"

The explosion was so sudden and so unexpected that she nearly cried out when she saw him, a furious silhouette dark against the dark room, looming over her in her chair. She didn't remember sitting down.

"You must have believed yourself so _selfless_ when you informed Raoul of my untimely demise. You wanted nothing but for them to get on with their lives, isn't that right? You are a liar, Duchess. Everything from your stolen title to your misguided attempts to do good has been a lie. Well, I will not be another pawn in your twisted game. Both of us decided at one point that Christine belonged with her lover, don't decide now to use me simply because you have changed your mind. This…" and here he clenched his scarred left hand into a hard fist. "…this changes nothing. My own demons are my own problems."

"If you truly love her…"

"OF COURSE I DO!" This second explosion seemed to sap away his energy, for suddenly he was sitting as well, across from her. He lifted his hands to his head and touched his temples gingerly. "I always have, ever since that first day I saw her singing to herself in her dressing room. It's not natural, I suppose, for a monster to believe in love at first sight. But in the end it didn't matter what I believed, the feeling took on a life of its own. So I tried to capture it, control it, control _her_. I came so close to destroying her, so close to turning her into nothing more than another monkey on a barrel organ playing the cymbals. She won't forgive me. No one should ever forgive me for manipulating, frightening, and tormenting a _child_.

"It was only after I let her go that I could even begin to live with myself. And if it hurt, it was because I deserved the pain. I cannot haunt her again, I simply cannot. Please, try to understand."

Clarice blinked rapidly. "My God, Erik…I would beat you soundly for being so selfish if you didn't have to be so goddamned _noble_." He lifted his head and glared daggers at her. She held up her hand to prevent any further outburst. "You've given your speech, now it's my turn. Once upon a time I dedicated my life to doing good. Or rather, to what I thought was doing good. But what I thought was meant to save lives, they believed was meant first and foremost to save their own asses. I threw my life away worshipping something that didn't love me back. Do you honestly think, Erik, that I would now be encouraging you to make that same mistake?"

"I don't understand."

"For God's sake, I thought only my husband could be so incredibly intelligent and dense at the same time. I'm trying to make a point that you have been too damned stubborn to accept for two months. The girl _loves_ you back."

He flinched as if she had struck him. "It is a shadow and a dream that she loves," he said with a shrug. "With the boy she has a chance for a normal life."

"Don't make me laugh," she scoffed. "Normal? How achingly dull. There is nothing normal about that girl. Angels and goblins, ghosts and demons! Not to mention the scandal and notoriety that surrounds an Opera diva. Singing…and the Opera are her life, her very existence. You couldn't drag her kicking and screaming into a normal life."

Erik stood up suddenly. "Then you would prefer to call _this_ a life?" He gestured violently at the windows curtained against the sunlight and the lamps that turned the enormous piano and instrument cases into flickering silhouettes like malformed tombs. "You would call skulking around the shadows of hell with a murderer, thief, and morphine addict a _life_?"

"Well, you are no longer a morphine addict."

Erik dropped back into the armchair unceremoniously. "You are mocking me now."

"Can you not see what's right in front of your eyes?"

She had spoken those words before, at least, in his imagination she had. The memory of that dream, when the burning mouth of an avenging demon had revived his spirit from the coldness of death, hit him with the force of a blow to the face.

Erik's head snapped up. "What?" he said disbelievingly.

"Enough self-pity, Erik. You said that Hannibal forcibly freed you from a prison of your own making, now it's my turn. So listen. I have known Hannibal for close to ten years. Among other things, he is a murderer and a sadist; he is arrogant, selfish, and an appalling housekeeper. Frankly, I don't know what we'd do without the servants. But I love him. It's as simple as that. I can't explain it, and I don't want to. Waxing poetic is only fit for philosophers and fools. It cheapens your feelings. I don't suppose you know how obvious you've been, but you only philosophize when you're afraid.

"Your brilliant mind has built an equally magnificent maze around the heart, and since you don't have the courage to tear it down, you stumble in this labyrinth of your own making like a lost child, too proud to ask for help. And when you see that at the end of all that searching, that what you were looking for was in front of you all along you turn away because you can't trust yourself to believe it. And so you make up excuses and you make up reasons, and you make it all sound so damn logical and noble that there's no way you can argue with yourself."

Erik was noticeably uncomfortable, and he reacted predictably. He sneered. "So that makes me a two-faced monster. I know that. I've been told that all my life, and there's no reason to start disbelieving now."

"Please, Erik, I've heard all I want to about your poor, godforsaken face. Yes, you're hideous," she said simply. "But tell me this. Do you truly think it was your appearance that made the world reject you?"

Erik's mouth fell open and stayed there. "I…of course…I never thought to question…"

"Erik, you made the entire Paris Opera House fear you without any of them ever seeing your face."

"That's not entirely true."

She rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean. Your face is secondary. What people see first…" she reached out and tilted his chin toward her with a finger, "are those eyes behind that blank mask, staring out with hatred upon the world." She let her finger drop. "And you wonder why people fear you."

The underside of his chin tingled from where her finger rested. He slouched back into his chair, sulking. "What do you know? You could not ever know…"

"You can sulk, Erik, or you can consider this. Two months ago she chose you. When you granted her freedom, she didn't run off to marry Raoul. Not because you forbid her, but because she didn't want to. I know you've eavesdropped on every session that Hannibal has had with Christine since the first day, so you know it's true."

Erik, who had kept his eyes upon her the entire time, dropped his gaze now, looking down at his black shoes. Looked at the way they blended into the darkness of the room. He looked up again and Clarice could see the battle raging in his eyes. His mind and his heart waged war inside an already-broken man.

He closed his eyes briefly and when he opened them again, she could see the exhaustion in his gaze.

"She belongs with the boy," he said. He covered the scarred half of his face with his hand and continued wearily. "She belongs in the sun…I am a poor substitute for the light."

Clarice set her lips in a firm line, and one could almost sense the fury and determination radiating from her body. "Fine." Erik's head jerked up as she spat the word into the thick silence like a curse. "Then we shall do this the hard way."

She whirled upon her heel and walked in large strides towards the door. She threw it open, and he flinched from the spears of sunlight that pierced the dark room. Clarice turned and stood by the doorjamb, staring fiercely at the man that sat before her with his empty hands and empty eyes.

"'Impossibility is not a concept I acknowledge.' I believe you told me that at one point, Erik. Now, prove it."

His frantic gaze flew to the dark corners of the room like a bird lost in the night.

"Don't make me wax poetic, Erik. But it's your turn to go to the light now, not have it come to you. You've always been a man of action."

Erik wasn't sure when he got up from the chair, but the next thing he knew he was standing on his feet, next to Clarice. He turned to look at her with a wary and awestruck gaze. "You are the kindest demon to have ever haunted me, madam. None have ever been able to make my demise sound so appealing."

Clarice scoffed. "Don't be so melodramatic, Erik. It doesn't suit you anymore. Whoever heard of a noble and brave Opera Ghost?"

Erik winced.

Clarice reached forward and put a hand on his shoulder. "But that's not necessarily a bad thing, is it, Erik?"

Erik stood silently before her, his eyes as silent as death. And then he smiled, a real genuine smile. It was as if a gray curtain rolled back from across his face, and his white teeth gleamed between bloodless lips, which stretched and strained from the unfamiliar expression.

"No bad thing," he said softly.

And he walked out the door and into the light.

"I would suggest that you first make your way to my husband's study. I believe you will find something you desire." It was last thing she said before shutting the door firmly behind him.

Erik stood in the corridor blinking in the bright light. He felt rather lightheaded but not unpleasant. He made his way to the study in time to hear the front door closing in the distance. He thought he saw a flash of brown curls disappearing into the outside world.

He opened the study door in wondrous trepidation, only to smile when he caught the powdery scent of roses.


	25. Frozen

**Chapter 25**

**Frozen**

Christine didn't know how long she'd been standing on the bridge, her hands dangling over the railing as she pressed up against the bars, huddling against them in the chilled air. She didn't know and she didn't particularly care. She could have stood forever savoring the feel of steel pressing against her flesh: it was a cold genuine feeling. After the unreal events of the past few days, it was a welcome discomfort.

As she gazed out at the steel gray surface of the Seine, she focused on a few hairline cracks in a sheet of ice floating in the center. The ice trembled as the currents underneath struck it, widening the cracks. Clear water seeped from the wounds to continue its arrested journey northward.

"The water will freeze again long before it reaches the English Channel."

Christine acknowledged Raoul's hand as he placed it on her shoulder gently. From the way she turned to look at him in pleasant surprise, it seemed as if he'd just happened upon her at the bridge rather than waiting for her for the past 15 minutes so that they may continue on their way.

She shook herself gently, clearing her head. "I know, Raoul. But it's nice to see a sign that spring is finally coming." She looked up to see Raoul looking at her quizzically, silently asking her if it was his duty to continue the conversation. She smiled and shrugged. "Spring was always my favorite time of the year in Paris. At Perros there was always snow on the ground until May. Papa made the mistake of taking me out boating in April. A piece of ice that neither of us saw struck our boat and we both went into the water. We were both excellent swimmers so it wasn't terribly worrying, but I don't think either of us left the fireside for the next three days. So I can safely say that I preferred the summer."

"I see. It must've been beautiful."

Christine hit him on the shoulder. "Don't act so interested, we both know that I'm speaking complete drivel."

Raoul laughed as he brushed some snowflakes from her hair. "Never, Little Lotte. Just hearing your beautiful voice is enough to charm the sensible part of me straight into submission."

"Your shameless flattery shall get you nowhere." Christine's brow creased. "And there's no need to call me that."

"What?"

"Lotte. It sounds so…so long ago."

"I'm sorry, I don't know why I still do it." He looked at his fingernails, picking away at some invisible dirt. He looked up suddenly. "No, actually I do. I remember Little Lotte as well as if she had been my second self. We shared so many years together, and so many demons and goblins that we had to conquer. But I feel as if I haven't come to know Christine nearly as well as I should."

Christine looked at him, unsure of how to respond to what she couldn't decide if it was an apology or a condemnation.

Raoul smiled disarmingly as he took her hand. "There hasn't been enough time, that is all."

Christine had discovered by now that Raoul always needed to hold onto something whenever he was preparing to say something he found painful. He was coming to the heart of the matter at last. They were much alike in that manner. They both found someone else to cling to for dear life in the face of hardships.

_Others bore the pain alone with almost inhuman strength, others like—_

Christine shut her mind almost desperately against that thought. She turned her thoughts instead to Raoul's fingers which were absently stroking hers.

"There hasn't been enough time," he repeated. "There haven't been enough summers or winters or…or demons." His fingers moved absently over the ring on her hand. "We can go home, Christine. We don't have to…if you don't feel ready."

_No one should have to bear his pain alone_.

"Of course I am ready, Raoul. What makes you think otherwise?"

"Your eyes, Christine. You and Little Lotte have the same eyes, that is one thing that has not changed, and I know them as I know myself." He released her hand and slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her fur wrap more snugly around her body.

_No one._

Christine snuggled deeper into the warmth. "You think too much, dear."

He smiled. "Perhaps. But I'd like you to think on one more thing for me." They had almost reached the end of the bridge, and now he turned around to face her, leaning them both against the cool railing. "I have received a promotion within the Navy. They wish me to be captain. I have not told Philippe; he will be furious when he comes home and realizes that I did not tell him first, but I wanted you to be the first to know."

The cold seemed to have seeped into Christine's mind. "Captain? Of…of a boat?"

He realized what she was thinking. "No, Christine, they would not ask me to spend the rest of my life at sea. That would not befit a man of aristocratic breeding. I am to oversee the port of Dover in England."

The chill seized her skull and shook it like a rag doll. "In…in England."

"I have not given them my answer yet," he reassured hastily. Too hastily. "I do not need to inform them of my decision until well into June." He took her hand again and led her from the bridge back onto the road again, noting how her hand trembled within his.

"And…and what will you decide?"

Raoul gazed intently into the distance before turning to her with a boyish grin that she had grown to cherish so well. "I have decided that I want nothing more than to spend this spring in Paris and every season thereafter with the light of my life. I want to be with her, and it is ultimately her decision in the end." He squeezed her hand. "You're cold. Would you like to go home now?"

_Home…_

"No…no, let's finish what we came into town for."

"Anywhere you go…" he reminded, and he smiled once again as he led her into the town.

Hours later, carriage laden with a wedding gown and suit, they drove back across the Seine, heedless of the sound of the iced covering cracking and breaking underneath the torrential pounding of the spring waters.

* * *

The singing was quite good. 

Christine rested her arms against the edge of the box as she leaned forward to hear. That was something that she had never expected to think. Before, she had been pupil to the most exacting master she could have imagined and she had learned quickly to discern the slightest faults in a voice.

Now, time in all her corroding glory had dulled her senses enough that she determined that the music was nothing short of pleasant to the average aristocrat's ear.

The first bassoon over-blew his notes but there were several others that played softer as a result, leaving the result unchanged. The conductor kept a tempo that was slightly fast, but the minds of the players were slightly slow.

Even Carlotta looked nothing short of radiant onstage in a shimmering gown of silver, with stars soaring from the flies and a moon and clouds at her feet. Perhaps she screeched a little and belted too harshly, but the Queen of the Night was a melodramatic and evil sorceress currently at the height of her fury, so it fit quite well.

In truth, she was a good fit for most female operatic roles.

Christine caught a flicker of movement and a flash of gold from a curtain at the side of the stage. It was Gino Polenzani, the actor playing Sarastro, the Sun God. It had taken Carlotta all of one week before declaring him as her property after he had been hired. He was a booming bass and an avid drinker and gambler, but he came from considerable money.

Her eyes strayed from the stage and into the audience. She saw powdered wigs (horrifically out of fashion), Princess gowns, and most of the frills in all of Paris. Women held opera glasses to their discerning eyes and whispered to their husbands and lovers at their side. Men scanned the programs with feigned interest and muttered to themselves while checking their pocket watches.

She wondered idly when she would see Meg before remembering that the slaves' dance was already over. It had been so long since they had both danced as slave girls in _Hannibal_.

Hannibal…how utterly ironic.

She glanced once more across the sumptuous auditorium, lit in its glorious feigned twilight and wondered why she didn't feel anything. Surely a building as magnificent as the Paris Opera House would have an identity, some sort of soul that she should feel tearing painfully free from her bosom. Surely the building that she had considered home for so many years would sob at her farewell.

Surely a single man could not have taken the heartbeat of the building with him upon his departure.

Carlotta finished her aria to thunderous applause and the lime-lights sputtered audibly as they flickered out. Like any good performer, Christine waited until complete darkness before moving from her place. She closed the door of the box softly behind her as she left. The opera would continue at least another hour before its completion and they did not need her to stay.

Nothing had changed.

* * *

From behind the curtains, a tight-lipped Madame Giry watched incredulously until the lights came back on and saw that the Phantom's box was once again empty. 

"Mama?"

She turned to see Meg looking up at her worriedly. "What's wrong, Mama? You look so sad."

The old woman's hand flew up to her eyes to wipe away tears that she realized were not there. "It's nothing, dear. Nothing."

* * *

There was a chilly blue glow about the lake and Christine decided that there must be little creatures living in the water that produced the light. She sat at the water's edge and hugged her knees tightly. How lonely it must have been to have these creatures invisible to his eyes as his only source of light for so long. No wonder he had left. 

"He's not here, Christine."

The young woman started for a moment before Madame Giry walked into her field of vision, her eternal black staff stamping the ground for support as she climbed down the steps to the water's edge.

Christine turned to her, blinking, as if seeing a stranger. "I know," she said simply. "He didn't leave the boat behind for me."

Madame Giry looked down at the water's edge to see the selfsame boat bumping against a roughly built dock. The pole had been painted with red and white stripes and there were several comfortable pillows resting inside. She knew that if she looked slightly further along the edge, she would see a dozen other boats hewn and painted in the similar style. Grainy and powdery deposits from the chemicals put in the water to make it glow blue collected on the boat hulls at the waterline.

"I have come down here every day for the past week…hoping that this will suddenly reveal itself as an obscene nightmare. I have lived in one for so long; it did not seem a foolish assumption." She laughed then, it was a horrible croaking sound. "Business has truly been profitable, I see."

Giry shifted uncomfortably. "You have never…?"

"Taken one of these monstrosities across the lake to see what they have done to his house? No, never. I know my weaknesses enough to know that I would simply faint predictably or be scarred inside for years. No, some illusions are better ignored."

The older women sat down next to Christine at the water's edge. She put her arm around the girl's waist and hugged her close. Madame never embraced her girls as a rule lest she lose her stern taskmaster's reputation, yet Christine leaned into the older woman as if it was the most natural action in the world. A minute later, Madame removed her handkerchief to catch the tears falling silently from the young girl's eyes.

"Oh my child, you have been forced to grow so fast."

"But I haven't, I haven't," she sniffed. "I have wept in these past months enough for a dozen lifetimes, and yet I still weep. I weep rather than admit the truth that…that…"

"He is not dead, Christine. He would have let you know before the fact."

"If he is alive then it is the worse for me. Because then it means that I am too cowardly to seek him out."

"You have no idea where to begin to look, Christine. He is not one to be found until he wishes to be."

"If it were not for me, Erik would not be hiding right now! And he would not be hiding from _me_."

"Erik? Christine, how did you—"

"He's a man, just a man that a little girl managed to destroy. You saw my father before he passed away, Madame— you remember how he looked in his final days. Remember how empty his eyes were, how full of death?"

"Christine!" Madame dropped her staff and took both of her shoulders in her hands, shaking her. "You must _never_ think that was your fault. Not _ever_, do you understand?"

She bit her lip and nodded. "He came back to be with me one last time. He gave me the strength to move on, but he did not tell me how. He did not…he did not tell me that I would be barred from the path by one man's desire to make a mockery of Erik's life. Where is he now, Mama? France? America? In another world? I'm lost without him, I'm so lost!" She clung desperately to Madame's shoulders. "How can someone feel so empty without another? I did not understand how my father could, but I do now, and it hurts more than I imagined anything could."

Madame Giry held her tightly, unsure of what to do or say. Was there anything she could have said that would have soothed her pain?

Christine sniffed one more time as she wiped her eyes. "You must tell me truly, Madame: Erik would never go to England, would he? To a land of eternal rain where there is no fine art to speak of and abominable cooking? Please tell me that he would stay far, far away from there?"

"Christine…Christine, you're not making any sense."

"I shall make one man happy, Madame. I shall not push someone away who needs me a second time."

"Raoul wishes to go to England? Oh Christine, this is not a decision to be made with the heart. Are you—"

"Don't ask me if I'm sure, Madame. You know the answer to that." She rose to her feet then and turned to leave.

"Christine…my dear. You can't keep running for the rest of your life."

"I'm not running, Madame, I'm simply going to get married, and I would like to ask if you would do me the honor of giving me away?"

Madame sighed, knowing that she would not win unless Christine wished it so. She and Erik were more similar than either of them had ever noticed. "You were never mine to give away, my dear. But I would be honored to do so now."

Christine smiled and they climbed out of the basement arm-in-arm, as the lake they left behind continued to bask in its cold unnatural blue light.

* * *

A/N: Happy holidays everyone! So I didn't make it by Christmas as I promised but hopefully this is close enough and it's before the new year. Major kudos and thanks to Chat, the lovely beta who stepped in at a moment's notice, and Chris, who lent his vast quantity of opera knowledge for assistance on _The Magic Flute_. 


	26. Decisions

A/N: Whew, I'm back. Several final exams and a trans-Atlantic moving-house later (during which I'm sure my muse got left behind), I bring you the next installment of the saga. Thank you to everyone who's still hanging in there…I think we've only got about 3 or 4 chapters left to go.

And…I don't normally say this but pleeeease review if you can! It sounds hokey, I know, but it gives me immense pleasure and inspiration to know that others are enjoying this. Now without further ado…

* * *

**Chapter 26**

**Decisions**

"I swear if you stay in this house one more day, I'll have a nervous breakdown."

Erik looked up from the piano, his fingers freezing in the middle of a sweeping arpeggio. "Surely you have not waited until now to be tired of my company."

"You have three days until the wedding, surely…"

"A wedding is a dreadfully expensive matter. I don't think I need to fear that they will reschedule within the next few days."

"Erik…how can you joke at a time like this?"

The man let his hands fall from the keys to his lap. "Do not ask questions to which you already know the answers, Madame. You said yourself that I philosophize when I am afraid. I believe that inappropriate jests emerge once the fear develops into mind-numbing terror."

"So…our conversation…all of that, meant nothing to you?"

"It meant _everything_, Clarice: never doubt that. I am not so blind as to miss how much of yourself you have given in healing me, and for that I offer my most profound thanks. But I never have functioned as nicely as the narratives of my operas. I do not experience an epiphany after a magnificent aria. You already know by now that I am the most stubborn man in the world, despite even myself."

Clarice forced herself to sit down, calming her twitching fingers that were simply aching to wrap around his neck. She had learned by now that Erik was rather like a block of ice that needed to be chipped, ground, shoved, and eventually melted to fit a mold. But if one struck too hard, he would shatter. She had rescued him once from the brink of such a fate…she would not take the chance again.

Erik's lips tightened, setting themselves into a line as cold as the ice of which he was made. "I'm terrified, Clarice…but I don't know if it is because I can feel such fear or that I tell you of it so readily." His fingers caressed the keys lightly, nervously. "I feel a strange emptiness. Before now, my mind had always pulsated with something: Passion, fury, hate…it didn't matter what it was— it made me feel alive.

"And now…" Here he touched the keys of the piano, a parchment filled with half-finished staves of _Don Juan Triumphant_ before him. The tune that he had been playing was not quite the same as what was written…it was in a different key, quieter and haunting.

He curled his fingers into fists slowly. "Now I cannot _think_ the same way I did anymore. The music no longer flows like water from my mind to paper, and what I have written before no longer sounds _right_. I must work at it; it is no longer a raw, untapped extension of my being that can burn at the same time that it inspires. And…I cannot think if I like it or not." At this he gasped and his hand went to the crook of his arm, his veins still a ruin of blue-black bruises.

"I feel it, Clarice. Always. Like a constant crawling in my skin, it calls me back every second of every day. It would be so easy, I think, to slide back into who I used to be. It would be comforting. And yet, how can I? Knowing now what it feels like to have a mind so clear of poison and hate…and so fearful at the same time?" His hands fell to his sides. "I am longer making sense, am I?"

"Erik, no one would ever love you less because you're no longer a raging psychopath." She had meant the phrase in jest, but the moment the words were out of her mouth, she feared how he might have interpreted it.

He slid his maddeningly impassive gaze upon her and merely nodded. "I know. Somehow, deep in my heart, I know."

They sat there in silence for awhile longer, uncomfortable yet neither making a move to draw away.

Erik cleared his throat. "There is also the small matter of my mask. You cannot honestly expect me to—"

"That won't work, Erik. If that was the only thing holding you back, you would have made yourself another by now. But I can easily bring you one of the models made by the Opera House."

"Madame, the only way you will get that atrocity near my face is by cementing it to my skin."

* * *

"Madamoiselle Daae, may I speak with you?" 

Christine was on her way to her little house, and she froze when she heard the voice. Turning, she beheld the face of Philippe de Chagny. Suddenly the bundle in her arms felt twice as heavy.

"Yes sir," she said, lacking any other response. He led her wordlessly into the main mansion and took her through several hallways before stopping in front of a pair of great oak doors. He pushed them open to reveal his study.

She froze in her tracks. Of all the times that she had been up to the main house, she had never visited this room before. The ceiling was high and swept up in gently-curved arches to a point in the very center. The room was lined from floor to ceiling with dark wood. A large bookshelf was built into the wall right next to her and took up the entire side of the room. The other three sides were covered with portraits, framed in gold-trimmed wood. The faces in these portraits were solemn, their eyes were piercing, and she shifted nervously under their imagined gaze. She could see from the various fashions in clothing presented in these portraits that they covered several centuries of de Chagny ancestors.

Next to the desk there was another portrait resting against its side. It was about half-finished, but from the features that were visible, Christine could tell that it was a picture of Philippe himself.

Philippe drew his chair away from his desk and sat down. He looked across the desk at Christine who was fidgeting with the wrapping of the bundle she held in her hands and looking distinctly uncomfortable. He was struck with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. How long ago had his brother stood in that exact place, nervous and furious as Philippe had demanded his immediate marriage to the girl standing before him now?

Surprisingly, it was Christine who spoke first. "Monsieur le Comte…I was not aware that you had returned so soon."

"Far be it for me to miss my only brother's wedding because of _business_." He sighed. "Sit down, Mademoiselle Daaé, I am not here to antagonize you." As he spoke, he felt a familiar crippling pain in his lower back. He ignored it— he was certainly not about to take his laudanum in front of her.

Christine sat down uneasily in a chaise covered with dark leather. "Then, Monsieur, what did you want to see me for? I…I am well aware that you do not approve of me."

"I will be frank with you, Miss Daae, I do not. I have never thought that you were a proper match for my brother."

Christine stiffened as her hands clenched around the bundle in her lap. The feel of its contents gave her confidence that seemed almost alien to her as she spoke her next words. "Then I shall be frank as well, Monsieur…who would be? A wealthy noblewoman, I presume?"

Philippe's eyes flared, but Christine was surprised to see that they held no anger. "Yes, I would certainly approve of that kind of woman…but not for the reason that you think. My brother is madly in love with you, Miss Daae. He loves you more than anyone he has ever known and he certainly loves you more than he does _me_…or any other remnants of our family. And that is why I do not approve of you, Miss Daaé, not because of your lack of noble blood. I don't give a twig about that nonsense. A dozen years in the army taught me that the same stuff flows through every man and woman. I don't approve of you because you are taking Raoul away from his family."

Christine was dumbstruck as she attempted to process what was potentially equal parts compliment and reprimand. "I…I don't understand."

Philippe gave a great suffering sigh. "Do not feel the need to put on a show for me, Mademoiselle, I know you better than you think, as I know Raoul better than he thinks. I have indeed seen the ways that you have tried to conform to our society, and to nearly all eyes, you have succeeded admirably. But you do not fool me and I don't believe that you fool yourself either. This life is not for you, Miss Daaé, and even Raoul will come to realize this eventually. And when he does, the besotted fool will throw away everything to start a new life for you. Passion was always our greatest weakness, Miss Daaé. And just as Raoul loves you enough to turn his back on everything he stands for, so do I love him enough to do anything in my power to keep him from doing so."

"Pardon my bluntness, sir, but shouldn't that be his decision?"

"You have no family, am I correct?"

Christine opened her mouth in outrage and then shut it. After all, it was she who had been direct first.

"No, I didn't believe so. So you can afford to be selfish. Raoul is a nobleman, he has been one from birth, and he cannot change who he is for the sake of love."

Christine listened dumbly, thinking to herself and somewhere, somehow, this description sounded terribly familiar.

"Our blood may be nothing special, Miss Daaé, but our history is. For them…" he gestured to the mute faces covering three walls of the room, "For them, we cannot abandon our posts. They gave us everything that we have now, and it would be nothing short of utter contempt to squander it. I know that you love my brother, Miss Daaé…the real question is _do you love him_ _enough_? Are you willing to love _everything_ about him, including his nobility?"

Christine took a deep breath, her mind spinning from her sudden revelation that Philippe was in fact not the complete cold-hearted bastard he had seemed. But he was waiting for an answer and she was sure that she was too confused and frightened to give him one.

"Raoul has been offered the position of harbor captain in Dover," she said softly, finally.

"Is that so? He neglected to inform me of this."

"No…he wanted to let me decide whether it was the right decision for him to make." She looked up to see Philippe looking at her intently. He obviously wanted to speak but held his tongue for her response. "I want him to take the position," she smiled knowingly. "It will bring quite a bit of honor to the Chagny name."

"Are you certain of what you are doing…Mademoiselle?"

Oh God…not that question. Anything but that. "Thank you for sharing your concerns, Monsieur. I should return to my house to prepare for dinner now."

He nodded, his eyes looking at her differently than they had before. "Thank you for your time, Christine."

* * *

"Thank you, Genevieve," Christine said as the maid took her proffered dress and began to hang it up in the wardrobe. She turned to face her mirror, removing her dark gloves and other pieces of jewelry on her person. 

"Shall I help you out of your corset now, Mademoiselle?"

Christine turned towards the maid and paused for a moment, thinking. "No, that won't be necessary. You can go now, but come and call me when dinner is ready."

Genevieve looked at the girl quizzically for a moment but decided not to ask questions. "Very well, Miss Daaé." She curtseyed briefly and took her leave.

Christine sighed in relief as much as her corset would allow. She brought her hands to her temples, rubbing away some of the tension of the day. Her efforts were nearly laughable. She had more reason now than ever to be nervous, to be scared, terrified, shamed…

She shook her head fiercely and went over to her bed to take the precious bundle back into her hands. She had held onto it for dear life during the earlier conversation with Philippe. Perhaps it would give her the courage she needed now.

Christine removed the strings and let the bundle unravel and unfold until it revealed its bulky elongated shape. She removed the paper and cloth wrappings slowly until she held only her wedding dress in her hands. It was a beautiful creation. Raoul and she had browsed designs for hours, smiling and joking at each other the entire while. She had wanted a plum-colored dress: rich mauve was the latest Parisian wedding fashion, and she knew that she could not possibly entertain afterwards in a white dress. But Raoul had insisted that her dress be white, waving aside the significantly higher price tag. _Nothing but the best for my angel…_

He had never once complained about spending so much time, although afterwards he had selected his suit in approximately five minutes, flashing her an apologetic grin.

The gown was sumptuous and dazzling to the eyes. The bodice was dusted with pearls and small diamonds, which winked tiny points of virgin light every time she breathed. No one who would look upon her in that dress tomorrow would ever doubt that she was anything less than the Vicomtess de Chagny.

She ran her fingers over the silk and taffeta, the textures strange and yet familiar to her fingers. In a blindingly clear vision, she remembered wearing another dress like this…no, a dress far, far beyond this. She remembered the masquerade ball from so long ago, the dress catching the eye of the entire room, the Red Death…the cold hands laying trembling fingers on the wings upon her back…The memories would not stop now, and she remembered the _other_ dress. The _wedding dress_ that she had never had a chance to wear.

Christine tore her mind painfully away from those memories and raised a hand to her mouth, feeling an uncomfortable pressure building at her throat. She mustn't think of that, not now. After all, she would wear this dress.

The process took about twice as long as it would have with Genevieve's help, but when she was finished, even her sore fingers could not dampen her awe. Christine had been told that she was beautiful, many times, but this was one of the times that she truly believed it. The dress was pale, paler even than herself and it lent her face a healthy glow.

She reached into the paper wrapping again and drew out a glistening pearl necklace. She fastened them around her throat, feeling them rest like knuckles against her skin. Then her eyes flew to the drawer at her bedside table, and she had it open and was prying up the false bottom before she could stop herself.

It was only for the sake of the image, she convinced herself, as she held the gleaming gold band to her eye. It stood to reason, she thought furiously, that she would need to learn to look at such things with an impartial eye. It was simply a ring, a simple band of gold…indistinguishable from the one that she would take tomorrow.

A drop of sweat beading upon her brow belied her rational thoughts, and she cursed herself even as she felt something inside scream and crumple with despair…

"Christine…oh, Christine…"

She gave a small shriek of surprise and whirled around to see Raoul standing in the doorway. To her mortification and relief, the ring slipped from her hand and down her bodice to rest out-of-sight against the top of her corset.

As she watched, his hand that had been upon the doorknob seized upon it involuntarily, and all the color seemed to drain from his skin to concentrate in his bright, adoring eyes.

"My God, Christine, you look…" And as every dashing nobleman is required to be upon seeing a breathtaking woman, he was promptly at a loss for words.

"Raoul…" she put a hand to her chest to calm the fluttering that she felt there. She said the first thing that came to her mind. "Why didn't you knock?"

She would have kicked herself inwardly for the inanity of the remark except that Raoul did not seem in the mindset to process her words with any level of rigor. "I…I did," he said. "Twice, and I also called your name, but you did not answer."

He blinked, some of the color returning to his face and turned to go. "I will just tell the servants to keep the dinner warm. I shall go now…after all, it's bad luck for a groom to see the bride in her dress before the wedding day."

"It is no problem, Raoul."

Christine would tell herself for months afterwards that she had no idea what possessed her to say such a thing. It was merely a pleasantry. She wanted to reassure him. She wanted to show again that she cared nothing for the rules of society. She told herself everything she could to avoid admitting to herself what a deliberate action it had been on her part.

Unfortunately, Raoul was coherent enough now to look into her eyes, eyes that he knew so well, and realize that something was wrong.

Wordlessly he reached over and took her face in his hands. His hands were warm, comforting, tenderly stroking her skin. She watched with near-detachment as he leaned in and touched his lips to hers.

His kiss was slow and sweet, and she could feel the restrained passion behind it. His lips traveled slowly over hers, and his tongue darted out briefly to touch her mouth and she hesitated for only a moment before letting him in. She felt his hand reach forward to cup the back of her neck, and she breathed in his scent and almost felt like crying.

The kiss was shorter than the first one they had shared on the Opera House rooftop so many months ago, and when Raoul broke the kiss, she felt something tear away from her with a sob. She saw some unreadable emotion in his eyes before he turned from her.

"Raoul…" she whispered as she reached out to touch his back. She felt the skin beneath his shirt tremble for only a millisecond before he jerked roughly away from her touch and turned around to face her. Although she knew they would be there, her heart still twisted horribly at the tears shining in his eyes.

"Why couldn't you tell me, Christine? Why couldn't you just tell me that you never wanted this?"

Fear gripped her along with heart-stopping despair. "No, Raoul! That's not—"

She jumped as he roared at her. "Stop, Christine!" He took a shuddering breath before whispering, "Please, just stop. For both of our sakes."

She could feel the tears springing to her eyes and trickling down her cheeks. "Raoul, please. I never…I never meant to hurt you." Even as she said them, the words tasted flimsy and cheap in her mouth.

He shook his head. "Yes, you did," he whispered. "You agreed to marry me, Christine. You were willing to bind us together for the rest of our lives, knowing that you could never give all of yourself to me. I can't believe that you would think so little of me as to believe that wouldn't hurt me."

"Oh Raoul, no…no, that's not what I wanted. Never." She furiously wiped at the tears in her eyes. _How? How had things come to this?_ She had been so sure when she had made her decision, that she was doing the right thing in salvaging at least one life. But Raoul's words had crumpled her fragile dreams in an instant.

"I just wanted you to be happy," she said helplessly.

He stared furiously at her. "_I love you_, Christine. I love you with every breath of my being and I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life as a part of you, as…as a part of your very soul. I…I need you to be happy too. Without that, it means nothing. I wanted your love, Christine, not your _pity_!" He was shouting now, shouting desperately, trying to ignore the memory of handing the ring to Christine before crying in her arms.

"I have _never_ pitied you," Christine hissed. "I love you, Raoul. You are the one thing in my life that has always remained constant. I never had to worry that you wouldn't be there for me, I never had to worry that you would care…I love you." Revelation and bitterness over how right Philippe had been coursed through her. "I just don't love you enough," she finished sadly.

Raoul made a strangled noise in his throat, but no new tears fell from his eyes. He had known, some part of him had always known. "I've watched you every single day, Christine, resplendent in that proper dress and proper hat. You never let anyone else see, but I knew. You were miserable, you always had been. I would have left it all behind, you know. I would have moved with you to a new world and started over if you would have had me."

"You know that your brother doesn't have long," she said gently. "He loves you dearly, you know that he does. And you are the only family he has left now."

"What am I to do?" he said hollowly. "Take the position in Dover and bring glory back to the Chagny name? Marry a lovely face and a wealthy name? Oh, my brother would like that, I know. And what of you, Christine? Wither and die pining away for someone who—." He stopped suddenly, his eyes fearful.

The same fear surged through her now and she crushed it with a wave of anger. "What?" she hissed.

His lips thinned. "Oh come now, Christine, don't think that I fear to mention him now. The Phantom, Christine. He's never left your mind, not once."

"You think that's why I agreed to marry you? Because he doesn't want me anymore so I settled for the _second-best_? Do you really think so lowly of me, Raoul?"

His face crumpled. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"That you won't let him leave! That's why you can't marry me. It's not because you don't love me enough, but because you love him more!"

Her jaw line shivered as she clenched her teeth together fiercely. "That's not true. He and I could never be. I know it and he knows it as well. That's why he's hiding away from me now, that's why he won't ever come back for me…"

"You are a coward, Christine Daaé." She looked up at him in shock as he continued. "Every part of you says that you love him, and yet you fear to look for him. I know what you have been doing at the Opera House this past week. How could I not know? What possible reason could you have for returning there if not to look for him? And you think that is _enough_? You think that sitting by the lakeside waiting for Erik to forget how you betrayed him and to come sail you away to a happily ever after is enough to prove that you love him?"

Amidst the pain that seized her heart at Raoul's harsh truths, a single revelation burned bright in her conflicted mind.

"Erik?"

She saw the color drain from his face again. Panic seized her and she dimly realized that she was shouting. "Erik? What…how do you know his name? What have you done to him!"

Her vision streaked before her eyes, Raoul's form blurry through her tears as he grasped her wrists in his hands to stop them from beating away at his chest. Her reaction frightened her. She had been so sure…so sure that she had been making the right decision. So sure that even the thought that her love was gone did not kill her. She had never considered…no, _refused_ to consider otherwise…refused to imagine that the blithe assurances of the vision of her father had been false…

"Christine, please. I didn't—."

"No! No Raoul! _You will tell me the truth_."

"He's DEAD, Christine!"

The world stopped. She never believed that anything could actually feel that way. She never imagined that any of the melodramatic scenes that she had so often scoffed in her little paper novels could genuinely come to pass.

But there were no tears in her eyes— they had frozen with her soul. She was dimly aware of Raoul lowering her gently to a chair. Her tongue tripped over her words, like a bird flapping fruitlessly with a broken wing. "How can you possibly know? How _long_ have you known?"

He bowed his head. "Ever since the night we first visited the Fell estate."

She kept speaking, knowing that she would shatter if she did not. "For a month…more than an entire month, and you said, you-you said nothing. Who's the coward now, Raoul, _who's the coward now_!"

"I couldn't tell you, Christine! How could I? You were barely holding yourself together as it was, I couldn't…how could I be the cause of more pain for you, Christine? I promised you that I would care for you, that I would be your light and life. I…I did try to tell you. I put a notice, hidden as an advertisement, in the papers for two straight weeks, hoping that this method would hurt as little as possible…but you never saw it. And by then, I was too afraid of losing you, too afraid that you would hate me. Yes, Christine, yes I am a coward, but I am afraid because of love for you, not afraid _of it_." He fell to his knees before her.

Christine was beyond listening. "You _promised_ that nothing would happen to him. I let you pull me from the cellars because you promised me that he would never let himself be caught. I've as good as killed him myself, don't you understand, oh God…don't you understand?"

"Christine, please…" She could tell that his voice was choked with tears as well. She felt the lightest touch at her waist as Raoul reached out to her. Memory, as searing as a prophetic vision surged through her, as she remembered trembling hands at her waist, Erik touching her waist with the lightest, trembling caress as she kissed him desperately…

She jerked away from him as if she'd been burnt. "Don't touch me!" The look of despair in Raoul's eyes was so powerful she nearly buckled. "No….no, don't come near me."

And then she was on her feet, her hands reaching for the door. Running from room to room and out the door. Stumbling over her wedding dress down the stairs, she lifted the long train in her hands, feeling some material tear beneath her feet.

The darkness outside pressed against her body, the darkness was shot with pinpricks of light from the stars and candles burning in distant windows and the ever faraway shouts of Raoul. She ran, not knowing where her feet were taking her, tripping and bruising on the punishing ground as she stumbled onto a road.

And then suddenly she did know.

The memory of Raoul dragging her from the basements, ensuring her that her Phantom…_Erik_ would be safe, that Cassandra would keep him safe. Later in the carriage, Cassandra believing her incapable of comprehension, confessing that she had found nothing, that Erik was long gone…

The storm of hooves filled her ears barely in time and she leaped from the road as a carriage nearly swept her over, hearing the curses of the driver from a seeming great distance. Then she was grabbing the bridle of one of the horses, and ripping the pearl necklace from her throat and pressing it into the hands of the astonished driver.

"The Fell Estate," she said. And then the sound of the horses hooves ground into her skull as the carriage jerked beneath her and she knew no more.

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A/N: ...blithely ignores the wretched cliffhanger... Um…I love Raoul? 


	27. Courage

**A/N: I know…a really short chapter after the long wait, but it will inspire me to finish the next chapter…and hopefully you dear readers will help as well. :) This chapter was written over several weeks on a bus going around Europe** **(also explaining where I've been for so long), and I hope it lives up to my previous standards.**

**In other news, everyone should go see _V for Vendetta_, my newest favorite movie.

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**Chapter 27**

**Courage

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"Artists use lies to tell the truth." – _V for Vendetta

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Christine's unconscious was not happy. She had fainted almost immediately after the carriage wheels had begun moving, and her shattered nerves and grief-stricken mind were doing a marvelously melodramatic dance in her head. She could feel the cloying fumes of Dr. Fell's potions rising in her consciousness. She had lost count of how many times over weeks and weeks that her body had relaxed and her mind shaken blissfully free as she lay upon the couch in his study or pressed her delighted face into the blossoms of his magnificent garden.

The drugs were meant to help her relax, he had said, to allow her to talk freely of the things that mattered the most. Now, she realized that the drugs had never truly left her body. She groaned as the carriage dipped into particularly deep pothole and realized that images were floating through her mind, sharp and crystal-clear and she knew that she did not know which ones were real and which were not. She also knew that if she were ever to ask Dr. Fell, he would not tell her. He was such a sneaky person, such a stealthy, conspiring savior...

The blackness parted in her mind to let her see the candles burning brightly in the corner of her eyes. They made colorful swirls in her vision as she passed them by. Erik's back faced her from where he sat at the organ. He was playing something, his brow furrowed in concentration as his head swayed back and forth. Something seemed very familiar about the situation. She felt her feet lead her on a remembered path.

_No_, she tried to tell herself, _no, this was how everything fell apart_. But her hand reached forward and tore the mask away.

Raoul's face looked back at her with an expression of terrible sadness. She took a step back. "No... no, it wasn't you that I hurt, it wasn't you." His mouth opened and closed soundlessly but she could hear his words in her head.

_Christine, my angel... my darling..._

She shook her head furiously. "No. Don't say that. I don't deserve your forgiveness." For the face that she thought to be fraught with sadness was rather filled with compassion. "Why did you have to be so noble all the way until the end? Why could I not hate you…why could you not have made this decision easier?" Nothing. "It's your fault!" she screeched. "If you had never come back into my life, none of this would have happened!" She continued yelling, screaming, and cutting with anything that might tear that burning compassion from his face.

Failing, she reached up to cover his eyes and the face came away with her hand. The skin of his cheeks dried and fell from her grasp like cobwebs.

She looked up to see her father this time. She only sighed. "I know it's not you, Papa. It was never you."

And she knew even before he did it that he would only reach up obediently and peel his face away. It made her feel empty inside. But at the next face that appeared, her blood ran cold.

Dr. Fell stared back at her, his dark eyes glowing red as Hell. His voice felt like velvet scraping over the dry bones in her head.

_Your fiancé seems to care so much for you, little singing starling. Yet he entrusts your care to the Devil._

Christine fought the chill rising in her chest. "You are no demon, sir."

His sigh was like winter rattling through trees. He raised his left hand so that she could see what he held in his fingers. The blade was small, barely longer than his little finger, but its wicked edge shone silver and what did not gleam was stained with deep crimson blood. She felt sucked into the center of his red eyes, and as she passed through, she trembled as the pit of her stomach coiled with a feeling that she thought must be nausea. But instead of bile, she tasted a mixture of rich wine and coppery, greasy despair. The taste seemed familiar to her.

She felt wrenched to one side as the red pressing in around her dissolved in a shower of bright sparks. When the light from the sparks dimmed, she could see Erik, smiling behind his mask as he gestured to something standing before him.

As she approached him, she saw that it was an unfinished marble statue of a woman. Her hands flew to her mouth as she saw the face. It was like looking into a mirror. She half expected the marble lips to move with hers. But Erik was speaking now and her attention, as always, was drawn inexorably to his voice.

_This is my work as of yet. Such a beautiful young girl, but look, can you not see the sadness in her eyes? To make her happy, I have carved her some wings to help her fly. You see? I will free her from this earthly stone._

Lifting the hammer and chisel, he struck a mighty blow to a ragged edge of marble. Crying aloud with pain, Christine covered her eyes as more sparks burst in her vision.

When she opened her eyes again, he was standing beside her and they were moving. His body was so stiff next to hers as they walked side by side. She looked at his rigid posture, his tightly clenched fists, all the way up to his expressionless mask. She had never wanted to hold them so much as she did at that moment.

_What if what he says is true?_

She shook her head. "My heart tells me that you live still."

_Has your heart not betrayed you before?_ She looked down and could not speak. _Can you live with yourself, knowing that you destroyed Raoul in your failed attempt to save me?_

Tears fell from her eyes, winking like diamonds. "Why must you be so cruel?"

_We always hurt the ones that we love_. The last word made a gurgling sound in his throat before escaping his lips, and Christine looked down to see the gaping bullet wound in his chest.

Her scream ripped through the scene like a black knife and then she was surrounded once again by cold, cruel darkness.

Christine woke to a sharp pain in her palm. She had been holding Erik's ring so tightly that the gold had carved a bleeding red half-moon into the flesh of her hand.

The carriage had stopped, and she opened the door with trepidation. The carriage driver was standing by the door and held out her hand to help her down. He drew it back as she flinched, trembling and paler even than her dress. She pretended not to notice the long look of curiosity that he clearly tried to hide.

Then before she could react, the driver had taken her hand in his. She blinked as he placed her string of pearls back into her palm. When she looked up, intending to protest, he merely shook his head and closed her hand around the necklace. "I wish you luck, mademoiselle. He would be a foolish man indeed if he rejected you." And he tipped his hat and left her standing on the gravel footpath.

Buoyed by this unexpected kindness, Christine drew herself up and knocked upon the door.

She had been prepared for one of the many maids or butlers. Instead, the door opened almost immediately and she found herself looking up at the lady of the house. Cassandra had been in the midst of preparing for bed for it was well approaching midnight. She wore a white nightgown woven simply of cotton and silk, and as Christine in her exquisite finery looked up into the older woman's face, she felt as awkward and gawkish as she had been the first time they had met in her dressing room.

Cassandra was regarding her with an expression that seemed torn between surprise and joy but settled finally for a pleasant smile. It was a welcoming smile, so Christine stepped over the threshold without hesitation when she gestured her to enter. The front door shut with a cold click of hinges.

After a few moments, Christine couldn't stand the silence and began wringing her hands. "Do you know why I'm here?" she said at last.

"I would rather not assume," Cassandra replied quietly.

"I was told something today... something rather distressing, about what happened underneath the Opera on that night." She was twisting Erik's gold ring around her thumb – she had gotten so thin that it would no longer fit on any other finger – and she knew that Cassandra could see it.

"Yes…the two of you nearly died," Cassandra replied quietly.

"I was speaking of Erik."

"So was I."

Christine blinked in surprise and then set her jaw. "What happened when you reached the lake?"

"I saw no one. I believe that I told Raoul and yourself as much in the carriage afterwards."

Something inside of her snapped. "Do not tell me this if it is not true!" she cried. Cassandra's expression did not change and Christine wished fervently that she could know what her mysterious friend was thinking as easily as Cassandra seemed to be able to read her. More than anything, she wanted her to deny the accusation.

Instead, Cassandra set the lamp that she had been holding down upon a nearby table. "What has Raoul told you?" she said at last.

"Only that Erik was…that he was…" she broke down. "Please, Cassandra, please tell me what you saw."

"He did not lie to you: The Opera Ghost is dead."

A year ago, Christine would have tumbled over the brink of despair and burst into tears. Now, however, she saw that the carefully-schooled blank expression had never left Cassandra's face, and her grief was replaced by frustration. "Why must you constantly speak in riddles? Yourself and your husband as well. Why can you not simply tell me what I so desperately need to know?"

Cassandra's face now showed a trace of admiration. "I want to make this very clear, Christine. My husband and I both love you dearly. We see in you the daughter we never had and never will have. We will always do everything within our power to help you. But there is much about us that society does not know and much that we never want them to know. And you are no exception. Let it only be said that I have learned that forgiveness is possible for _anybody_.

"We speak indirectly because that is what we have become accustomed to for living. And we have come to realize that is what they want to hear…few are ever ready for the truth. I will not give you a straight answer now because that would cheapen the importance of the answer that you desire. Do you understand what I am saying?"

Christine twisted the ring around her finger once more. "What do you want from me?" she asked finally in a small voice.

Cassandra smiled and said, "Courage." At this, she touched the dark spot on her left cheek that Christine had always thought to be a birthmark. "And you have shown more than enough of that tonight. But I find if I ever need courage, I go into my husband's study on the first floor. He doesn't use it much anymore and I find that it is easy to lose myself in one of his many books."

At this, Christine smiled nervously. This was one riddle that needed no translation. When it was clear that Cassandra had said all that she meant to say, Christine nodded once at her and then turned to walk down the hallway, treading the familiar path to Dr. Fell's study.

* * *

Back in the entrance hall, Clarice took up the lamp and began ascending to the second floor. Once she was sure that Christine was out of earshot, she took the steps two at a time.

* * *

Back in the entrance hall, the last bit of lamplight glowed upon a pair of maroon eyes watching from the darkness. They winked out as the owner turned away, lips turned up in an invisible smile.

* * *

Christine had envisioned their reunion more times than she could remember and certainly more times than she cared to admit. There were always tears and caresses, the fear and awe of finally opening herself to this intense, enigmatic man and receiving his surrender in return. Their relationship had been built on so much deception…she found herself realizing even now that she had received Cassandra's hopeful revelation with barely more than a little surprise.

Now she planned on telling him the entire truth, even if she had to tie him down in order to do so. She owed him at least that much. And then…she would let him make the final choice.

She expected to find him perusing music or asleep or perhaps, in her most fanciful moments, standing ready, waiting for her. As it turned out, Christine opened the study door to find him with his back to her, sliding a book back onto a shelf as casually as if he had lived here all the days of his life. The book was Dante's _Divine Comedy_.

But when she stepped into the room and her long train brushed against the half-open door, he turned around and went so still that she thought she might have imagined his movement. But he was looking at her and looking around her and through her before he closed his eyes, a long slow pause as he veiled himself from the sight before him, and then reopened them.

The first thing she noticed was that she was seeing fear in his eyes for only the second time. The second thing she noticed was that he was wearing a shirt that she had never seen before; one sleeve ended above his elbow, and he quickly moved his arm behind his back.

He moved forward with slow hesitant steps, as if afraid that she was still but a vision, and his nervousness was an emotion new to her. His voice was as she had remembered it, though stripped of something that she could not name.

"Christine," he said. "My angel…my darling…"

An unidentified emotion surged through her as those words broke upon her, and she felt her hand swing out, her left hand, for she did not want to cut him with the ring, and she struck him hard across the face. It was only after she heard and felt her palm connect with bare skin that she noticed that he was not wearing his mask.


	28. Passion

A/N: A properly-long chapter for your enjoyment. Hopefully you shall forgive the delay. This is one of those chapters that has existed in some form or another since the very beginning and been rewritten for nearly as long. As a properly obsessive author, I'm still not completely happy with the result, but I do think you will enjoy it. :)

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**Chapter 28**

**Passion**

Erik swayed and took a step back. His smooth cheek red and stinging; utter, undisguised shock plain on his face, an emotion as rare as his fear. Instinctively, he turned slightly away so that his scarred side was no longer facing her.

"Christine, what—"

"Stop it!" she screamed, clapping her hands over her ears. She forgot that she had intended to apologize and speak gentle words. After so many months without hearing his voice except in the warped prison of her mind, she had forgotten the effect it had upon her. Her heart was racing and her body was thrumming with an emotion that made her want to laugh and cry at the same time. "Stop talking, stop saying my name. I can't stand it anymore!"

Erik was silent. He walked gingerly toward her. "My dear…"

His words might as well have fallen on deaf ears. Christine continued to hold her hands over her ears and whimper. "I can't take it anymore. He's done something to me…I hear your voice…in my head every hour, waking and sleeping, I can't…I can't escape it! It hurts more than anything I've ever felt…but I don't want it to end." Her head came up, her eyes bright. "What sort of person did you choose to give your love, Erik?

"An angel." His reply was hushed and instinctive.

She felt herself shaking her head. "I never was an angel, Erik. And neither were you."

Her last sentence seemed to shake him physically, and he took a step back.

"We put each other through hell, Erik. Neither of us should be so quick to forget it. And you should not be so quick to forgive me."

He opened his mouth to speak but was unable to form words. He ran bright eyes over Christine's form and wondered what she had seen and what she had been through in so many weeks. Certainly, he remembered the many times that her voice had floated through the vents from the study where she and Dr. Fell had spent long hours speaking. For the first few days he had listened with possessive attention, but soon it became torment to hear her voice and know that he was not able to see her and he had resolutely stayed away.

Yet what had happened for her to appear now before him with her mud-splashed finery and her determined gaze? He could guess why she was wearing the dress that she was, but he was not yet willing to believe why it was _his_ ring she was twisting nervously around her finger.

"Christine…I forgive you anything for which you feel you need forgiveness. I have always been the most wretched being to you…but I have always forgiven you."

She wanted to hold him, she wanted to fall at his feet and weep, but most of all, she wanted to find some way to tell him how she had come to be what she was now. She had not thought before that she had changed that much, but she knew now, for she realized that her second desire had been but a passing thought. Everything that ran through her mind to say seemed inadequate, but she knew that it fell to her to speak first.

"I left Raoul."

Every part of his body trembled as he heard her speak those words. Outwardly, the only sign he gave that he had heard her was to respond, "Why?"

Her mouth opened and then closed again. The ring made another journey around her fourth finger. "I…"

"Were you unhappy?" As he asked this, some of the unbearable tension he felt made its way into his voice.

"No. Raoul loved me, I think in time even Philippe would have loved me. And I loved Raoul back." She caught his gaze. "I won't bother denying it. I am here because you deserve to know the truth. I am here because…because I knew that I had to be. For these few months, I have had everything I could have asked for, I was loved to the ends of the earth, and I was ready to accept my life. It was you who had given it to me, and it would have been nothing short of…of utter contempt to squander it." Her tongue felt strange with Philippe's words, but she had not realized until now how true they were.

"And then I was told that you had died. I cannot even begin to describe how it felt to hear those words. I had tried not to think of you for so long, I had convinced myself that you had moved on, and that you were doing a better job of it than I was…you always could do anything better than I could dream. But to hear that you were dead and to know that _I_ was responsible…no, do not deny it, we are both equally to blame for that night, Erik. I could not take it, I could not continue with that life, all the while knowing that you had paid the price as a result."

"Why me?" Erik said hollowly. "Why am I worthier than the boy who loved you to the ends of the earth?"

"You were the one, Erik…who taught me that loving someone meant letting everything else go, for their happiness. I came here because I knew that if there was even a _chance_ that I could make things right, if there was a chance that I could beg your forgiveness…you see, part of me never believed that you were gone. Even if it meant losing everything…Raoul, Philippe, Meg, Madame Giry…well, it is only fair that I should lose so much more than you had to bear. I recognize how it feels now, to be solely responsible for another's happiness. And it frightens me. Yet…do you see then…why I can't help but to love you so? I love you, Erik…I think that I always have in one way or another. And I beg you to tell me if that is enough for you. And if not, simply tell me to go, like…like the last time. Heaven knows that I would have deserved it in both cases."

Erik stared at her as if in a dream and realized that during his many months of forced ignorance, Christine had laid her childhood to rest. He had cautiously turned his face back toward her…how could he hide himself when she was exposing herself so brutally? Several things ran through his mind to say. _Do you really mean it?_ was the first and was quashed with one look into her bright eyes.

"What have I done to deserve this?" he asked softly. At her small smile, he dared to take a single step forward.

"You have changed," she said, partially in reply, partially in wonder.

"For the better, I should hope. I daresay there was no other way to go. But not as much as you, Christine. I can safely say that your goodness has always been a virtue to which I could never hope to aspire."

She seemed not to hear a single word he said. "You have. Your voice no longer carries such permanent desperation. Your eyes…they no longer hold all the sadness in the world. You look healthy, _alive_, your face…"

At this, he made a movement as if to cover himself but decided against it, keeping his arm behind his back. "My face has not changed," he said shortly.

"But the way you wear it has."

"I am still Erik," he said. His eyes flew to her side. _Had her hand just moved towards him?_

She shook her head. "You were never Erik to me, you were the Phantom, the Angel, the shadow…you were not Erik until the very end. And then you would not have me any longer."

He ducked his head, averting his eyes. "Erik is the one who makes mistakes. You will understand why I never wanted to be him."

"But he is the only one that I want." And then she did reach forward, her hand hovered in the air above his shoulder before getting bolder and moving towards his face.

Her fingertips felt like drops of cool snow against his dry skin. They darted across his good cheek and caressed the half-formed bridge of his nose before moving with equal tenderness over a ragged scar above his lip. He let out a shaking sigh and felt his warmth breath touch her hand before her closeness warmed his own skin. Without thinking, he lifted his left hand to touch the backs of her fingers, not realizing what he had done until he heard her cry of dismay.

She gingerly touched the mess of stitches on his forearm. "Another scar, Erik. Oh, why, why?"

He clenched his fist and lowered his arm. "A rude awakening if you will. Ruder and cruder than most humans could imagine, I sometimes wonder if it was Death itself that was responsible. But it cleansed the poison from my veins, and it taught me that I have been blaming this face for too many of my woes." He raised his arm to rest his hand lightly against her side and dared to smile when she did not pull away.

"I will never be an easy person, Christine. This face is not something I can change…neither can I guarantee that I will ever be free of my temper, or my jealousy, or my anger. But if this is the Erik that you want, you may have him until the day I die."

Christine let out a sound that was halfway between a sob and a laugh. "He could not sound more perfect to me," she said as she stepped forward and closed the space between them.

They both knew what would happen next, and they moved closer accordingly. But the uncertainty burned as bright as the passion in their eyes, and the fear, for there would always be the fear, of losing what both had finally found. When their lips met, they bumped against each other, and hands made awkward journeys to more comfortable positions as if it was the first kiss they had ever shared. And in so many ways, it was.

They pulled back, smiling at the wonder in each other's eyes. Then Erik tangled his hands in her hair, his thumbs brushing gently against the dimples in her cheeks before he drew her in for a second kiss that took her breath away.

* * *

"Eavesdropping, my dear?"

Clarice did not turn away from her place next to the air vent in the upstairs music room. "Certainly I am, you shameless hypocrite. Why don't you come over here so you can hear better?"

The laughter was rich and warm in the darkness. "Somehow I do not believe that we will hear much more _talking_ from that room for the rest of the night."

Clarice smiled as she felt an arm wrap around her waist and pull her close to an invisible body. "Does that mean that you would like to turn in for the night?"

She heard the rumble of a growl go through his body. "On your victory night, my dear? Quite to the contrary."

She laughed as she allowed herself to be pulled away. There were miles to go before any of them could sleep at peace, but she would savor every triumph along the way.

* * *

He was awakened by something warm touching his face and tickling his mouth. His eyes blinked open and focused upon a familiar blue-eyed gaze leveled at him. Erik groaned and rolled over.

"I am no longer nocturnal, Ayesha."

At his movement, the other slightly larger body in the bed shifted and let out a soft snore. Erik's whole body froze for a terrified moment before he remembered. Then he wondered if _he_ snored at night.

Aware that any more sleep was now impossible, Erik moved to lean back against the headboard, moving as little as possible so as not to disturb her sleeping form. He wasn't entirely successful and Christine rolled towards him, her forearm coming to rest against his side.

Erik felt light-headed as he placed his arm gently around her shoulders, gathering her close to him. The sight of his wretched, scarred arm against her soft curls was jarring, but the peaceful smile on her sleeping face belied any discomfort on her part. She would likely sleep well into the day. She had been so weary last night that she could barely manage to remove her wedding dress. It was evidence of her exhaustion that she'd hardly reacted when he helped her finish undressing before clothing her in one of his spare shirts and drawing the covers over them both. He could not have said the same for himself.

He looked down at Christine sleeping beside him, knowing that beneath the sheets his shirt fell down past her knees. The thought caused a jolt within his body so intense that he feared it.

He flinched when Ayesha, obviously irritated at his lack of attention towards her, jumped onto his stomach and arched her back languidly. The cat followed her master's gaze and regarded the sleeping woman with something approaching curiosity before turning her eyes back to him.

"I love her," Erik said. Ayesha blinked slowly, her blue eyes winking in the dark room before she settled down on his stomach to preen and ignore the sleeping being completely.

"I love her…" Erik repeated softly, well aware of the ridiculousness of confessing to a cat. But saying the words out loud caused a delicious sensation to run from the base of his throat down to his center.

Light as a feather, his hand brushed against her cheek, marveling in the softness of her skin, and moved up the side of her face to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Christine smiled in her sleep but did not stir, and Erik was happy to sit there and wonder once again at her presence at his side.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Christine still had not stirred and Erik noticed a lightening of the sky through the gauze curtain covering the window. As gently as possible, he shifted Christine away from his side to rest comfortably against the pillow, but he could not help Ayesha's yowl of indignation as she awoke to find herself dumped unceremoniously from atop his body. Erik got up from the bed and ran a pacifying hand over the cat's fur before moving to the window and drawing back the curtain.

A dusky red glow could barely be seen on the horizon and the bright morning star was just beginning to fade into the sky. The window overlooked the mist-shrouded green and forest behind the estate, and his eyes were drawn to the edge of the trees as a flock of swallows took startled flight away from something in the woods.

Squinting, he saw as the figure of a boy, wiry and skinny, jogged out from the trees. He was wearing a loose tunic and trousers cut off at the knee. Erik watched as the figure stopped on the lawn and took off his cap. He blinked in surprise as a cascade of long auburn hair fell from underneath the cap and blue eyes flashed up in his direction. The "boy" winked cheekily at him, and Erik knew that he was staring back open-mouthed at the sight.

Turning, he looked to see that Christine remained deeply asleep. Ayesha was curled next to her in the space that he had vacated. He smiled at the slumbering duo, marveling again at how everything had come to pass. Then he softly moved out of the room and shut the door behind him.

Opening the door of the estate and stepping outside did not seem a momentous event. It was only after he heard the click of the shutting door echoing in the open air that he recognized that this was the first time he had set foot outside in nearly half a year.

Clarice was sitting upon the dew-frosted grass when he walked up to her, her body contorted into some ungodly arrangement as she stretched her muscles. A sheen of sweat covered the visible portions of her sun-darkened flesh, several bright droplets clinging to her eyelashes. Her chest rose and fell quickly with her heavy breathing. And as Erik approached, she turned towards him, her sparkling eyes so energetic that they seemed to radiate warmth.

"Hello, Erik," she said cheerily, as if it were perfectly normal for a woman of her status to be running before dawn through a forest in men's clothing. He had forgotten how tan she was; she always powdered thoroughly whenever she went out into society but for that first time he had laid eyes upon her. Dark skin, a traditional mark of the working class, draped her body like a medal of honor.

"How often do you…?"

"Every day."

"Ah."

Her white teeth looked incredibly bright as she smiled through the frame that her knee and thigh made around her head. "Honestly Erik, you know my history. Did you expect an American girl who spent half her life annoying their police to allow a few snobbish Parisian rules to get in the way of her exercise?"

He laughed. "Certainly not, Clarice. Yet I must say you never cease to surprise me."

"Nor you, I. You should do that more often."

"What?"

"Laugh like you haven't a worry in the world. Although I'd imagine you'd have more reason to after last night. Am I correct?" The way he suddenly averted his eyes told her all she needed to know and she chuckled.

"Insufferable woman."

She relaxed her final stretch and leapt to her feet as agilely as a cat. "The very best kind. I'm very happy for you, Erik," she continued soberly, "if anyone deserves such adoration, it is you, something that I'm sure that myself and the woman whom I suspect is currently sleeping your bed agree upon."

Erik flushed a deep crimson and it was beautiful to see the color creep into his pale skin, lending a healthy glow to his pallor. Clarice smiled. "You must become more accustomed to this."

"To what?" he murmured, his mind already straying back to his dark cool room where the woman who loved him lay sleeping.

"To happiness. Heaven knows I've worked hard enough for yours, so I'd better not have wasted my efforts."

Erik smiled and looked down, his hands twisting underneath his cloak like those of a nervous boy. When he looked up at her again, they were both aware of the change in his gaze. The increased intensity in his eyes swept over her fiercely but not uncomfortably. She felt it pulling at her chest as she sucked in great swallows of air.

Perhaps it was the bracing sensation of cold morning air upon his uncovered face. Or perhaps it was the heady scent of Christine's warmth still clinging to his collar. But he opened his mouth and heard himself saying, "If circumstances had been different…"

She looked up at him. "If they had been different…if I had grown up in Paris, if I had a modicum of musical talent, and if the fates had seen fit to allow me to know you, I would have personally ensured that you never felt the least bit of self-doubt again."

He stared, unsure whether he should feel amused or embarrassed. He saw the corners of her mouth twitch, trying to suppress a smile and decided that two could play this game. "A modicum of musical talent, you say?"

"The very few times that I was foolish enough to sing, my voice has been compared to unoiled machinery."

Erik raised an eyebrow. "Sing for me."

"…what?"

"I don't believe you. So…sing for me."

"You can't be serious."

"I assure you that I am."

She looked at him in trepidation. Then she opened her mouth and sang one loud note. It was an admirable effort. It was in a manageable octave and did not quaver overmuch, although it ended rather abruptly—with a muffled squeak like a rodent caught in a mousetrap. Several startled small animals darted into the foliage.

Erik blinked. "Well…madam, your enthusiasm is certainly not lacking. But your breathing is completely wrong. Normally a person breathes shallowly like…"

"This isn't worth your time, please don't bother."

"Like this," Erik continued, ignoring her. "The chest goes out and the abdomen in. It's a bad habit of common etiquette. A singer breathes from the diaphragm, using her full lung capacity. The stomach goes out and the breath curls at the back of her throat. Try it."

She hesitated and then the protest died in her throat at the earnest expression in his eyes. She took a deep breath and attempted to adjust her body, feeling rather like a squirming worm. She paused for a moment before expelling her breath in the same note.

The note was the same, everything else was utterly transformed. The power of her lungs swelled underneath the sound and buoyed it out to fill the morning sky before it died away in a shimmering like silver bells.

Clarice took a step back, placing a trembling hand at her throat. She looked at Erik, eyes wide and noticed a shudder pass through him as he noticed her delight.

His twisted lips twitched in a tiny smile. "You see?"

Her hand did not move from her throat. She stared at him with unblinking eyes, and with the sudden certainty that there was so much about him that she did not know at all.

What she said aloud was, "This would have done wonders for my ability to entertain at parties. What a pity we didn't try it until it was too late."

"Clarice…"

Any trace of uncertainty was gone from her eyes. "No Erik, I won't hear of any protests. You've been locked away in this house for far too long, and with Christine here there is no possible way that I will let you two continue hiding away."

"You can't rightly expect a wanted masked man to take an afternoon stroll along the Champs-Elysées."

"And you forget that you are living with the only two people who are as adept at hiding as you."

"No, it is not only that." He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "You were not joking about what you said…earlier."

Clarice looked up, saw the uncertainty in his gaze. "I was not, I was speaking the complete truth." She sighed heavily. "'No one can choose where we will love,' Erik. I believe that's something you've said before. I won't lie, I will always wonder what might have been, and I will wonder how much bloodshed and pain may have been avoided if it could have been." She shook her head. "But it's not our place."

Erik was dumbstruck as he watched the strongest woman he had ever known confess what he had never dared to imagine. He looked down. "I'm sorry."

She stepped forward and tilted his face back up until his eyes were level with hers. "I'm not, Erik. I'm not." Her hand moved down until it rested in his. He used her other hand to lift their enjoined hands to eye level.

"These hands have killed, Erik. They have killed faceless dozens that we have buried in the lowest depths of our minds lest we go mad."

She felt his hand tremble in hers and she clasped it more firmly in both hands. "You were never meant for such a dark fate, Erik. I don't want you to remember Firmin's death every time you see my husband's face, or remember how we spin a constant web of lies so that we may live in peace, or remember how I bound up your lifeblood within your body when you were at death's door. Go to your angel of light now. There is nothing left here—" He pulled her into a fierce embrace and she could say no more. They held each other for an eternity as the cold sun threw harsh, jagged shadows from the trees as it climbed the sky. The wind whipped around their bodies, tearing at their embrace with the finality of the goodbye they had always known would come.

Clarice closed her eyes and breathed his scent in deeply: candlesmoke, dusted parchment, and the velvet bitterness of night –and when she opened them again her eyes were calm.

He kissed her on the forehead. "Thank you." She barely had time to gasp before he lifted her bodily off the ground, his face grinning happily. He twirled her around. "Thank you," he repeated. Startled birds took flight as their laughter rang brightly in the cold morning air.

TBC


	29. Shattering of the Spheres

**Chapter 29**

**Shattering of the Spheres**

"Christine…are you certain?"

She placed a placating hand on his ravaged cheek. She had learned quite quickly that a gentle touch did wonders for his unpredictable emotions. "Absolutely certain. I must do this, Erik. But I will return, I promise."

He smiled at her. "I know you will."

She could not help smiling at his utter conviction. How had she lived so long without this warm glow within her? She kissed him gently before leaving him in one of the many parlors on the first floor. Although Christine had been fascinated by rooms in which Erik had spent so much time and the instruments they contained, he had seemed eager to spend as much time away from there as possible.

As she stepped away and let the door close behind her, she felt a part of her longing to run back to his arms. But unlike the painful yearnings she had felt in the preceding months, this feeling warmed her soul and left her content.

"Christine." A voice beckoned to her from a door.

Her heart sank when she realized that it was not Cassandra who had spoken but her husband. Dr. Fell. The man to whom she had not spoken for over a month. The man to whom she had confessed so much. Yet for all their time together, he lingered as nothing more than a constant shadow within their mind. The man who had been grasping a blood-stained knife when she had last seen him in her mind's eye.

Christine was aware that she had stopped dead at the sound of his voice and gone pale. She knew it was too much to hope that Dr. Fell had not noticed her immediate reaction.

Something about him changed infinitesimally when it saw her fear. A slight relaxation in the posture perhaps, a softening in the eyes, and in that one moment Christine glimpsed the man that Cassandra had fallen in love with. She also noticed that it took considerable effort for him to appear as unguarded as he was.

She could appreciate more than anyone how difficult it was to remove one's mask.

Dr. Fell coughed. "I am very pleased to see you here, my dear. I trust that _all_ of our inhabitants are making you feel at home?"

She showed only the slightest bit of surprise. He had known about Erik. Well of course he must have known! "Yes, monsieur. I…thank you for your hospitality."

"It is our pleasure. I wished to inform you that I took the liberty of having your wedding gown cleaned and pressed. It is ready whenever you desire its return."

"Thank you," she said again. She paused. "But that is not all that you wished to speak of to me, is it?"

"Indeed not," he said. "There is a matter of considerable importance that I wish to discuss with you. Am I correct in assuming that you are leaving to speak to Monsieur de Chagny?"

She had long ceased to show surprise over his uncanny ability to read minds. "Yes, monsieur."

"Do you trust me, Christine?"

She paused. Did she? He unnerved her. He unsettled her. There was so much about him that she knew she would never know. But he had listened to her when all she wanted to do was weep. And he had given her roses when she wallowed in her deepest dungeon of despair. And most importantly, Cassandra trusted him. Cassandra loved him.

"With my life," she replied. And she was rewarded with a rare glimpse of unmasked shock and surprise.

"Then come inside, Christine. We have much to discuss.

* * *

Clarice was walking through the main hallway dressed in a simple yet elegant mauve gown that allowed easy movement. Spring was well under way and she relished the absence of layers of petticoats.

All pleasant thoughts came to a standstill and she stopped dead as she saw Christine step out into the hallway. The younger woman's face was pale and fearful. Her lips were drawn into a thin, trembling line and she busied her hands with tying her bonnet to her head to disguise their similar shaking.

Clarice looked at the door from where she had emerged and froze when she recognized the entrance to her husband's study. _No…no, he can't. Not now, not after everything, he can't have done anything that…_

"Christine!"

The young woman started but smiled when she saw who it was. "Cassandra, I was just about to head out. But I'm glad I saw you before I did, I wanted to thank you for…for everything. You'll never know how much it's meant to me."

Clarice nodded automatically, accepting the gratitude, but her attention lay elsewhere. "Did my husband with to wish to speak to you about something?" Her voice feigned calm.

She saw some of the nervousness return to Christine's face. "Yes. He merely wished to offer his congratulations and…oh, it's no matter."

Clarice's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure, Christine?"

Christine nodded quickly, too quickly, then smiled at her once again before turning and walking quickly into the foyer to exit out the front door.

Clarice looked at where the younger woman had once stood as a fierce rush of emotion made her run, nearly stumbling, to her husband's study. She wrenched the door open. But she didn't even need to step inside to realize that Hannibal was no longer there.

* * *

He didn't even notice her when she first approached, so intent was he on watching the flow of the river below. The Seine had shaken off winter's icy grip at last and the water was frothing and splashing merrily against the banks.

It wasn't until she was within a meter of him that she saw his nostrils flare, as if catching a familiar scent upon the breeze, and he stiffened and turned towards her with the rigid motion of an opening door.

She nearly took a step back at the storm of emotions in his eyes. Fury, sadness, relief, but over all that, an undeniable affection that even now he did not bother to hide. She felt her resolve waver and reached out to wrap her hand around a bar in the bridge's metal railing to ground her.

In the end, he spoke first, asking, "Are you well? Are you…hurt in any way?"

Christine was well aware of how distressed she must look, but she shook her head slowly, never taking her eyes off him. "Nothing that you can see, Raoul."

He made no response but merely turned back to his vigil over the merciless river. She moved to stand beside him and was silent, for she knew that he had the right to speak next. He did not. With each passing second, Christine felt her heart grow heavier.

Finally he bowed his head and turned back towards her. "When you asked to meet me today, I hoped that maybe you had changed your mind but…" he shook his head. "I don't think you realize how you have always worn your heart on your sleeve. You never could hide from me, but I never allowed myself to accept it." He sighed deeply. "I knew all along that it would never work, that when I told you what had happened to him, that you would leave me. Damn him. Damn him wherever he is!" His body seemed to wilt as he leaned against the railing for support, as if his anger had found no real malice against a dead man and therefore had turned upon himself. "Christine, I am so sorry…"

She stopped him before he could say anymore. "Raoul…you are here so that I may ask your forgiveness, not the other way around. The only thing that you are possibly guilty of is loving me too much. I didn't deserve it." She saw his eyes widen; it was his turn to realize how much she had grown at last.

Then a pitiful chuckle escaped his lips. "How much easier it would be if love was something to be deserved."

She winced, but she knew that she would not back away until everything that needed to be said had been said. "You must never think any less of yourself, Raoul. God, don't you know that the only reason this hurts so much is because you are the most blameless man I have ever known?"

She saw his jaw shifting, heard the joints creaking from an obviously fierce effort to keep from lashing out. God knows he had every right to, but it seemed as if Christine had not been the only one to grow.

Where the knight in shining armor would once have rushed to defend his honor, now he merely dipped his head and said, "Do you remember…that night, when I thought that he was going to kill me. Do you remember what he said? He told me that I knew nothing of love. Granted he was a raving lunatic at the time, but loathe as I am to admit it, he was right. I tried to do everything for you, I put you in harm's way…everything so that you could see how much I loved you. But he did right by you, Christine." He laughed. "I would rather not have almost lost my life in the process but he showed me just how much he loved you when he let you go." He grimaced, and the expression was filled with pained humor. "And as a gentleman, I cannot let him outdo me, can I?"

However, his voice lacked bitterness and he kept his eyes averted from her for a moment before continuing. "Did Cassandra tell you everything you needed to know?" he asked quietly.

Christine's face fell as she considered her answer. He would understand some day. Some day _very_ far into the future. After all, he was no stranger to keeping secrets for the sake of love, but how she wished to tell him!

Out loud, she said. "They…are leaving Paris." Raoul's eyes showed his surprise. "They are traveling into the French countryside to be married." She laughed. "All that I know is that they never had a chance for a European wedding and are making up for it while they can. Afterwards, they plan to return home to America. I will go with them," she finished.

He gripped the railing a bit tighter but otherwise gave no indication of his reaction. "I see. I realized that you were close to them but…" He passed a hand over his eyes. "You trust them then?"

She nodded. "They are like family to me. There is nothing left here that…that I have the right to impose upon."

Raoul mentally shook his head in disbelief. She was all that he needed for family. He would start a new life with her far away from the ghosts of their past. He would give her a home in a strange land and lots of children and love her until his dying day. He allowed himself to imagine this for a long time.

"If you forget everything else," he said. "Remember that you are always welcome in my house."

The earnestness of his voice was nearly her undoing. As it was, her hand shook as she reached into her bag and took out the circlet of platinum and diamonds, feeling her fingers brush against the other ring of cool gold as she did so. She forced herself to look into his eyes as she laid the engagement ring in the palm of his hand.

Her hand drew back and she knew he was looking down at it, but he made no move to close his fingers.

"Keep it," he said, his voice pleading.

"Raoul, you know I cannot."

"I am not asking anything other than for you to keep it. You can do with it whatever you like, but this is something I can never give to another. Please understand that."

A long moment passed. Then Christine reached forward and took the ring from his outstretched palm. "I will keep it, Raoul. But I must tell you that I can never wear it again."

"I understand, of course I understand." He said it far too quickly, and Christine was not fooled.

She closed her hand around the ring and took a step back, a step that felt for all the world like a planet pulling out of its orbit. Raoul continued to concentrate on looking everywhere except at her; his eyes were riveted once again upon the waters far below. She stepped back until she reached the end of the bridge before turning away

Her carefully measured steps soon turned into a brisk walk and then a flat-out run. More than a few eyes turned to watch her flight through the streets of Paris. Christine could feel the tears stinging her cheeks and then whipping away with the wind, but she made no move to wipe them away. She knew that they were no longer a sign of weakness.

She ran out of the afternoon sunlight and turned onto a side street, searching for a carriage to bring her back to the de Londres estate.

* * *

Clarice watched her husband all day, waiting for some indication of what had transpired between him and Christine. She knew from the start that it was a futile effort. If Hannibal did not wish for her to know something, she would not know it. However, her stubbornness had always been one of her most consistent traits.

Erik joined them for dinner that night. Christine did not.

Hannibal suggested that perhaps her business in the city had kept her later than planned, a theory that Erik supported, but Clarice still sat down at her chair with a painful feeling twisting inside her chest.

Erik, however, seemed relieved that his newly-discovered love was not present as he sat at a formal dining table for the first time in his life. He had watched countless parties at the Opera from afar, of course, and had been invited to multiple festivities during his time in Persia, but there they sat upon mats on the ground and ate with their fingers. The stiff, sterile environment of aristocratic European dining unnerved him.

The Duke and Duchess had sent the servants away after the meal had been laid and before Erik had arrived. He thanked them for their foresight, unsure of how he could have endured two hours of curious eyes peering at his mask and his fingers as he fumbled with his copious collection of silverware.

His mask…

Clarice had pressed it into his hand without ceremony as he had entered the dining room. He had slipped it on over his head instinctively, too stunned to question. It took only five minutes of sitting still before he became uncomfortable. He had not worn the mask since his fearful brush with death. Weeks and weeks of comfortable if despondent living had filled out the hollows in his cheeks and he felt the mask rubbing up uncomfortably against flesh. A more obvious discomfort was the sudden sensation of near suffocation. For the first time in his life, his skin had breathed for weeks without a barrier and been kissed by the air of a cold morning, and now he felt as though he could not breathe.

He looked up to see Hannibal looking pointedly at him and realized that this was yet another test.

"Do not call attention to the mask, and neither will anyone else," Hannibal said. Then he gestured to his wife, who was seated across the table to the left of Erik.

Clarice turned to him. "As a married couple, you will not be permitted to sit beside Christine. Your primary objective during a meal will be to tend to the needs of the woman who will be sitting in my place. She eats nothing unless you place it upon her plate."

Erik caught on after her first sidelong glance towards the center of the table, where a magnificent roast rested on a tray with serving fork and knife ready at its side. As he picked up the utensils, Hannibal spoke again.

"In France, the carving would be done by servants but not so in America. We decided to let you practice in this manner because we shall be returning to the States in a matter of weeks. We would be most honored if you would join us."

Erik's hands froze over the roast. "Have you told Christine of this?"

Clarice watched how her husband paused and then said, "Yes."

Erik nodded. "We would be honored to travel with you until Christine sees fit to settle down." Then he sliced into the roast. His hands, though inexperienced, completed the task with as much grace as he performed all tasks.

"A portion for you, madam?" he said with a cheeky grin. Obviously he had taken her advice about smiling more into account.

Clarice pushed aside her discomfort and nodded her assent. After Erik had served her and himself, she prevented him from digging into his meal with his salad fork. She watched him throughout the course of their dinner, correcting everything from his posture to the angle at which he held his utensils to his lack of eye contact with the rest of their imaginary dining guests. Every time she corrected him, she marveled at the patience and lack of complaint from a man who until recently had sworn off all forms of human contact for good.

For his part, Erik was as exacting a pupil as he had been a teacher and never made the same mistake twice. Where before he would have scoffed at the frivolities of social life, he found himself instead fascinated by the thought of ingraining himself within society; fascinated by the thought that he could, in fact, succeed and wanting nothing more than to do so.

He had only to recall his sweet memories of the previous night to remind himself of why.

At long last the dessert had been served, and Clarice explained that the ladies at this point would withdraw into the drawing room while the men stayed behind to drink. Erik laid his silverware properly upon his empty plate and sat back elegantly in his chair. "I apologize for my appalling table manners, my dear hosts," he said with a smirk.

Hannibal had finished pouring them all flutes of champagne and set the bottle aside. "You have done well, Erik. But if you remember nothing else, remember this." He picked up his glass and gestured for the other two to do the same.

"Never apologize for anything."

Then he toasted Erik with a sweeping motion, and all three sipped from their glasses.

* * *

"Hannibal!" Clarice rapped again upon his study door. She had let the worry fester inside her chest to the point that she felt she would burst if she did not confront him at last. They may have realized their undying love for each other, but that didn't mean she would let him get away with any more crimes.

_Automatically assuming the worst of him, are you? My, my, what does that say about your future together?_

Clarice ignored the voice in her head. That voice had been there from the very first day, but it hadn't taken long before her stubborn and rather reckless spirit quelled it into silence. Thusfar, her impulsiveness had served her quite well.

"Is something wrong?"

Erik's voice stopped her as she raised her hand to pound on the door again and perhaps throw in some swear words for good measure. She sighed and started to say, "It's nothing" but stopped herself. They had passed the point of keeping secrets long ago.

"Hannibal seemed rather distraught today, and it worries me that he will not tell me what is bothering him."

Erik frowned. "Are you concerned that something may be harming him?"

"No." She grimaced. "I'm concerned that _he_ may be harming someone else."

His eyes widened in understanding. "You really think he could have…?"

"Why not, he has done so in the past." She could have bitten her tongue immediately afterwards; she didn't need to turn to see the pained look upon Erik's face at the unintentional chord she had hit within him.

"He has changed, Erik, make no mistake about that. And I know that he is a strong man, just like you, but that doesn't mean he can never be tempted again. I only wish that he would let me know…so that I could be there for him."

As if on cue, there was the sound of a bolt drawing back from the other side of the door and then silence. Clarice placed her hand on the knob and hesitated only a moment before pushing the door open. After a few seconds, Erik followed her.

He had taken only several steps into the study when he nearly ran into her unmoving form. Clarice was frozen in place, unable to tear her horrified gaze away from what lay before her.

The top of the elegant desk had been swept bare of its contents and covered with layers of plastic and cloth. The figure lying atop these sheets was dressed for her wedding. However, the beautiful white garment was soiled with smears of blood, some patches dusky and dried and some fresh and still dripping onto the plastic sheeting.

The face was bruised and scarred to the point of being unrecognizable, but even within the bleeding mess of flesh, there was no mistaking the brilliant blue eyes peeking out from beneath swollen lids.

Clarice's cry of horror was lost in the sound of her glass shattering on the floor.

* * *

**A/N: I apologize for the wretched cliffhanger, but I'd be lying if I said that I didn't enjoy it. All I ask is for you to trust me. :) There should be one or two more chapters followed by an epilogue. Hang in there!**

**And please please please review! I know I sound like a whiny child asking, but I only got one review for the previous chapter, albeit a lovely and moving one from my one true love Fantome, and I really need you guys to help me through the last few steps of this journey. Thanks!**


	30. The New World

**Chapter 30**

**The New World**

Clarice could feel her skull pulsing with every erratic beat of her heart. Dimly, she sensed a pair of hands supporting her body. Erik must have noticed that she was about to fall and had quickly stepped forward to catch her underneath her arms. Her vision constricted to see only the crimson stains upon the white of the dress and of the forearms. As the bile rose in her throat, she wondered why Erik did not appear as horrified as she did.

A roaring filled her ears as she saw Hannibal step into view beside the body, wiping his bloodstained hands with a white towel. She made to move towards him, but the hands on her arms stayed her. She snarled and moved again but Erik increased the pressure of his hands. She the cold sensation of the mask pressing against the side of her head, and she realized that he was saying something.

"What?"

"That is not Christine."

The words were whispered directly into her ear and took several seconds to register in her mind.

"What?' she croaked.

Erik made no response but simply ran a soothing hand over her shoulders. Then she felt him turn his gaze toward the other man. "Monsieur…you had certainly better have a good explanation for this."

Hannibal's hands twisted within the crimson-stained towel as if he wished to rend it in two. Instead he stowed the cloth out of sight within a bulging black bag beside the body. He lifted his eyes to meet Clarice but through the red haze within her mind, she saw nothing.

His lip curled. "I see no need, Erik. It seems as if both of you have already drawn your own conclusions."

"Damn it, man, this is no time for—"

"Do I appear to be jesting, monsieur?" His voice was so terribly cold. "I understand your initial reaction only too well, but if you insist on imagining only the worst of me, then I am obligated to tell you nothing." He turned to look at Clarice again and this time she could not miss the flicker of pain in the cold depths of his eyes.

She offered him no response, merely held his gaze for a moment longer before looking once more at the body upon the table. She forced her heart down from her throat. The agency had trained her well to observe with impartiality in the most dire of situations, and she drew upon that serenity now.

The woman was dead and had been so for many hours. The bruises upon her face were blackened and the cuts were covered with a coppery crust. Through slashes in the wedding gown, she could see that some flesh wounds that had not healed. These gashes had been truly horrific and had been made with a variety of serrated blades. Black streaks around the wounds indicated that the weapons had been made of rusty and low-grade metal. However, the slash marks in the fabric of the gown did not match their corresponding wounds. The rips in the dress were clean, smooth, deliberate. There was too little blood staining the fabric, considering the time frame. The slashes in the dress—Christine's dress—had been added later. Perhaps only mere minutes ago.

Clarice took several gulps of air and felt the pounding behind her eyes ease. She looked at Hannibal again: a criminal, a murderer, her lover, her husband in every way except for law. How could she trust him? Hannibal drew his hands away from the body but remained at his place beside the table, like a doctor standing over his patient. How could she not trust him?

"Where did you find her?" Clarice asked, and was surprised at the steadiness in her voice. Erik had long since released his hold on her.

She saw her husband's eyes fill with relief. "The hospital's mortuary. They had not yet filed her information and were only too happy to leave the task to another doctor."

"Why?" she finally asked.

His lips thinned. She could feel his searching eyes boring into her for a long time. Apparently satisfied, he nodded his head to the side of the room, towards a figure that neither had noticed. "I think you would be more satisfied if she were to give you the answer herself."

Christine stepped out from the shadows of the room and walked towards them. As she moved past the desk, she shrank as far away from it as possible, her face pale. Erik enfolded her in his arms, tightening his hold as the girl began to tremble.

"Christine," Erik asked gently, "What is going on?"

She placed her hands against his chest, visibly calming as it rose and fell with his breathing. "Our freedom, Erik."

He waited, obviously expecting for her to say more. But she remained silent as she tried to look anywhere except for the grotesque display upon the table.

"She is leaving too much behind to disappear." Erik looked up as Clarice spoke for her. "They are still hunting for the Phantom in Paris, and thus they will continue to hunt her. If Christine is dead, they have no more reason to look. It is a simple matter of tying up loose ends, Erik, something we make a habit of doing."

"Christine agreed to this," Hannibal said quickly.

"You never said…" Christine's voice was shaking again. "…that it would look like _this_."

Hannibal sucked in air through his teeth. "I apologize for the unpleasantness, but corpses of young girls in pristine condition are hard to come by."

There were audible gasps from both Christine and Clarice. But instead of growing paler, Christine's face flushed quickly with anger.

"I agreed to this, did I? Certainly I did, you were so reassuring; you were so confident and comforting; you had been for all the months we spent together. How could I doubt that you knew best?"

"Christine…"

She paid him no attention, carrying on as if a raging harpy had taken her place. "I don't know who you really are or what right you think you have to toy with the lives of others like this. And I am disgusted by the fact that you find yourselves unable to trust me enough to tell me." Pausing for breath, she looked up with a hint of pleasure that both of them, especially the Duke, were not meeting her gaze. But then her tone softened as she took Erik's hand in hers. "However, I was not lying when I said that I trust you with my life, both of our lives. I trust that you are doing what is best for the both of us. And that you have a good reason for not telling me…whatever it is. I only hope that someday you will find it in yourselves to trust me likewise."

"Christine." This time it was Erik who spoke. "Remember that I would not tell you who I was at first either. I believe it was the right decision in the end, but that didn't make it any easier."

The young woman did not speak, but she tightened her grip on his hand and nodded.

"We will finish what needs to be done here," Clarice offered.

Christine raised her eyes to her, and Clarice's heart fell at the stiff gratitude she saw in her gaze. The young woman nodded, and the couple began to move away.

"Christine," Hannibal reminded softly.

She stopped so abruptly that she nearly tripped. She reached into her bag. Her hand was steady as it brought out Raoul's gleaming engagement ring and remained steady as she took the many steps toward the table. She lowered her hand towards the ravaged body, wavered, and finally set the ring down next to the girl's stiff right hand.

When they had closed the door behind them, Hannibal picked up the cold hand and after some maneuvering, slid the platinum band onto the fourth finger. Frozen in rigor mortis, the ring sat precariously loose upon the finger. But Hannibal bent over the hand and though Clarice could not see what he was doing, when he straightened and turned back towards her, the ring fit snugly and comfortably upon the stranger's hand.

"Who was she?"

He paused at the unexpected question, but then moved his eyes unerringly up and down the body. "Her physique and length of bone indicates a basic but nourishing diet. She was a step above working class, most likely a seamstress, judging by the calluses on her fingers. Early to mid 20s in age. No evidence of sexual assault, which is fortunate as we would not be able to conceal that from the coroners. Nevertheless, wrongful death."

She raised her eyes to him. "What is this? Hannibal Lecter speaking like a special agent?"

A corner of his mouth twitched upwards briefly before his expression sobered. He rested his hands palms down on the table next to hers but did not touch her. "You really believed that I had done it," he stated.

She did not lie. "Yes."

"I hoped that you would not."

"Then give me a reason, Hannibal," she said gently. "I believe that you love me. I believe that you care for Erik and Christine like family. You prove these things to me every day. Prove to me as well that you are finished killing. Let me see you, let me help you."

He bowed his head. "There were others at the hospital, others still living…in better…cosmetic condition than our seamstress. They were a hairsbreadth from death, wasting away from incurable diseases. It would have been a mercy. It would have been simple to justify even to your own staunch morality."

"Then…why?"

"Why did I not? I believe that I once asked you if you would ever say to me 'Stop…if you love me, you'll stop.'" He shifted his hand slightly so it was half-covering hers, relaxing when she did not pull away. "But that was not a question for you to ever ask, it was a question that I myself had to answer for. And…I have. And that is the reason."

Clarice looked from their hands back up to him. "It seems as if today's wonders will never cease. Now I learn that Hannibal Lecter is an incurable romantic."

The scoff that she was expecting never came. "It is the most passionate people who have the potential for the most good or evil," he said. "I shy away from thinking what could have been had you and Christine not been turned from our path so early in your lives."

His hand was a warm weight over hers. Clarice turned her palm face up and interlaced their fingers. "It is never too late," she said.

Hannibal smiled at her and squeezed her hand in his

* * *

_Do you know the difference between a "labyrinth" and a "maze"? Too often we carelessly interchange these in common speech, never knowing that they differ significantly in one way. Both contain only one true path, but while a maze hides this path with countless blind alleys, a labyrinth contains no dead ends, only detours._

"What do you suppose it means?"

"Why do you care?"

"It's just…it sounds rather optimistic, doesn't it? And if it is, why would she kill herself?"

"Like hell if I know how the minds of these aristocrat types work."

"How can you be so sure that's what she is?"

"I know silk when I see it. And that there ring sure isn't any old trinket."

"Hmm, how much do you think that toy would fetch me?"

"You'll leave it alone if you know what's good for you. Once the body is identified, her folks would realize its absence as fast as they'll throw you in jail. Write down a description of the gown, can't be too many stores in the city that sell stuff this fine. Poor girl, it was a wedding dress, too."

The body bearing the white gown had been floating in the Seine for the better part of a week before it had washed up on a bank a few yards away from the Louvre, frightening a group of vacationing nobles to death. The body and the dress had been beaten and slashed against the breaking ice badly enough that the facial features were completely obliterated. One fist bore a sparkling ring on its fourth finger, thus preventing the coroners from writing the case off as just another missing person. When they managed to pry her fist open, they found the apparent suicide note crumpled in her palm, waterlogged around the edges but otherwise legible.

Damaged though it was, the identification of the dress was made quickly. It wasn't every day that a wedding dress of such extravagance was purchased.

"Jesus Christ, the future Viscountess de Chagny. That family seems permanently cursed. Young gel was only 20 years old, too. Poor girl, I'd hate to be the one to tell her fiancé."

"Meaning you're shoving the unpleasantries onto me then."

"I'll treat you to a nice dinner with the family."

"Appreciated. Life goes on, eh, mate?"

* * *

The news of Christine Daaé the future Viscountess de Chagny's suicide spread like wildfire through the social circles of Paris. The vast part of the population had never quite made up their minds about the scandalous singer, but few were hardened enough not to weep over the end of such a beautiful and promising young woman.

Commotion stirred amongst the higher circles; they accused each other of being unkind to the girl, for driving her to a horrific end all because of their inflated egos. Many were humbled and stopped to consider the path their lives had taken. The spell lasted for a day or two before the feelings passed like temporary rain showers and the men returned to their brandy and the women to their powder and fans.

An investigation was undertaken, reassigning a significant number of officers who had been patrolling the city for the elusive Phantom. The fact that the lessening of police presence on public transit-ways coincided with the Duke and Duchess de Londres' imminent departure from Paris was seen as nothing more than a coincidence.

* * *

"Do you require any assistance, madam?"

"No." The other woman turned to go. "Christine…please. I wish…I wish that you wouldn't."

She turned to face her. "I know. I wish that I could…put it all behind me. Erik is better at doing so, I suppose. It will take me time. But…madam, the next time that I address you, I want to use your real name."

She matched her piercing blue gaze with one of her own. "Yes, Christine. I promise to tell you one day. After you are in America. After you are safe. But until then, even you must travel under a false name."

"I understand."

* * *

"Mama, please don't cry."

"I should never have let it happen. I should have smashed that damn mirror and moved her to a different dressing room when it first started."

Meg wrapped her little arms around her mother's waist as they both wept for the sister and daughter they had lost forever.

* * *

"Madam, I must entreat you not to leave now. It feels as if the entire city is in an uproar over the death of Miss Daaé. The reporters will be descending upon this Opera House in like buzzards."

"Don't fret, André. Remember that a successful Opera House is built around scandal. I have faith that you will handle this well, and turn a tidy profit in the process."

The man quirked a smile. "I return the sentiment, madam. I never thought I would hear myself say this, but you are everything I could have asked for in a business partner. I wish you and your husband well in your travels."

* * *

In the cold, sterile hospital room, Raoul de Chagny lifted his dead love's hand in his and caressed her fingers and the ring upon her fourth finger.

A ring that she had said that she would never wear again.

He suddenly began to laugh, but, remembering the presence of the coroners, he turned the laughter into a choking sob. However, in his mind, he silently wished Christine well.

* * *

The Fells left their estate with little fanfare, making enough excuses to avoid too many questions. They had dismissed all of their servants except for two. Their maid, Mariana, was a lovely girl that had traveled with them long enough to be considered a part of the family. The Duke and Duchess apologized for her shyness but it simply wouldn't be proper for her to make an appearance as they said their goodbyes. Gawkers caught only a glimpse of her as she stepped into the carriage, her head wrapped in a shawl.

The second servant they chose to retain was their coachman, whom they trusted to conduct them safely to the remote areas of France and then over the sea to the New World. He unfortunately had a horrible case of hay fever and really could not step out of the house in this season without a scarf wrapped around his face.

Caught up in the latest scandal of the future Viscountess de Chagny's drowning, the socialites gave little thought to the abrupt departure of the Duke and Duchess, except to scramble greedily into their bank vaults when they realized that the beautiful estate had been put up for auction.

The couple that successfully purchased the house, however, merely expressed outrage at having to pay such an exorbitant sum for a property they claimed had been theirs all along. More than a year ago, they had awakened to find themselves on an island, which, while exotic and comfortable, had been miles away from any form of civilization. There they had lived a mean and suffering existence until a few days ago, when the hand of God had finally seen fit to bring them a merchant vessel bound for France.

The aristocrats merely laughed and welcomed them heartily into their society. After all, they could never resist a good story.

FIN

* * *

**A/N: Thanks, gushing, and tears shall follow after the epilogue. Until then, as always, review, pleeeeease!**


	31. Epilogue

**Chapter 31**

**Epilogue**

First, there was the terrible, tearing pain that seemed never to end.

Then the burred mewling of a newborn child, tinged with the clarity of silver bells. The lovely, pleading sound called her back from the feathery edges of oblivion, and the roaring in her ears cleared for her to hear what was spoken next.

"It is a boy, ma'am."

The young mother gasped with remembered pain, the sweat sheen slick and damp on her forehead. Her jaw, clamped tightly shut for hours, creaked as she moved it. A name, two syllables long, escaped from between her thick, cracked lips: the breath rushed from her open throat at the last consonant, her teeth crashing together, as she shivered from the sudden coldness, a part of herself now gone.

The doctor smiled, his maroon eyes warm as he cleaned and swaddled the squirming bundle of new life. "I will call him in immediately, ma'am. He would have my head if I didn't."

Christine felt her heartbeat slow to a regular rhythm as she was finally able to suck in a lungful of cool clean air. As she breathed out, she said, "Thank you, Hannibal."

His hand twitched and he was glad that he had already laid the child in its mother's arms.

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The scene that met his eyes when he stepped out from the bedroom into the parlor reminded him of a bullfight. His wife stood not far from the door from which he had just emerged as Erik circled around her, trying his best to move closer to the door. She was engaging him in conversation, which he wasn't hearing at all, and keeping herself between the nervous man and the bedroom door.

Both heads turned as Hannibal stepped into the room. The scene was broken almost immediately. Erik made a desperate yet graceful dash towards the door, and this time Clarice stepped aside to let him pass.

Erik stopped at the threshold next to Hannibal. He ran his hands over both sides of his uncovered face and into his sparse hair, swallowing hard before stepping into the room. Hannibal hesitated but let him pass. They would talk later.

Clarice crossed the room to him and took his hand in hers. His hand was damp and slightly raw from when he had washed the blood from his hands. Perhaps he had scrubbed a little harder than necessary.

"Dare I ask if the child…?"

Hannibal shook his head slightly. "No parents could wish for a more beautiful child."

Clarice let out the breath she had been holding. "They never appeared worried in the days leading up until today. But I couldn't help wondering if deep down, they were."

He led her by the hand to a sofa where they sat down. "If they were, Erik would certainly have asked me before going into that room. Why the sudden curiosity, my dear?"

"It simply feels so unreal. This life they have created, this life that _we_ have created. It feels so fragile, as if it could break at any moment, as if the slightest reminder…" She shook herself, as if she were clearing her head. "I am so happy for them. Heaven knows they deserve it."

Hannibal did the most unexpected thing. He laughed. And then he wrapped an arm around her slim waist. "Oh Clarice, you continue to doubt even now. It should be me in that position, not you. If anyone deserved to be happy more than those two, it is you."

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Hannibal and Clarice had received the invitation from the Eames residence a month earlier. By then, it had been nearly a year since the day they had arrived in the New York harbor. They had driven the overwhelmed couple through the towering buildings of the city until they reached a quiet and well-to-do suburbian haven. Once there Hannibal had pressed a housing receipt and several spare passports and birth certificates into their hands before slipping away.

They had not seen Erik and Christine since.

At first, Hannibal and Clarice had simply been too busy simultaneously forging new identities and enjoying the proper honeymoon they had never had. And then they began to argue over the wisdom of remaining in the States. The American people had a long memory for the horrors of the past. After one too many close calls, Clarice insisted that they would only invite more trouble while Hannibal insisted with equal fervor that they must stay.

"If I am to be through with the life of a criminal, then I also refuse to remain a fugitive any longer," he said.

The argument last nearly three months. By then Clarice had gotten a job managing a small community theater, and Dr. Lecter had successful taken up his original profession in the last place that law enforcement would think to look.

They kept in contact with the young couple by sending them news of Paris, for they retained connections that the former Phantom of the Opera and gothic starlet had never had.

That was how Erik and Christine knew of the mysterious cave-in that sealed off the Opera basement caverns forever. Soon afterwards, Andre had retired as manager of the Opera and the position had passed to Madame Giry.

That was how they knew that Philippe had not disowned his brother after his aborted marriage plans. Not long afterwards, the Vicomte de Chagny had married a proper young lady of a noble Dover family and Philippe was quick to report how he had never truly doubted his brother's devotion to their venerable family.

For the rest of the year, they had wrestled with the question of when to visit their friends. They had already decided that the next time they saw Erik and Christine, they would be completely honest with them. They were now as safe as they could possibly be, and there was no reason to continue the deception any longer.

Then Erik had sent them a letter announcing Christine's pregnancy and extending an invitation to their home. Upon learning the news, Clarice would not hear of burdening a young mother-to-be with the knowledge of who the child's godparents-to-be really were.

Which is why as Hannibal related the events that occurred in the birthing room, Clarice bristled with indignation. "Christine knows? What could Erik have been thinking, telling his pregnant wife that a pair of convicted felons was going to be present at the birth of their first child?"

Hannibal chuckled. "Well, my dear, they rather fit that unflattering description themselves."

"That's not the issue, Hannibal, and you know it. I swear, you act like an insensitive male far too often simply to annoy me."

Despite the anathema surrounding her name, Clarice had had one mentor whom she had trusted with her life and who in return fought for her place in the agency with all his considerable power. When Jack Crawford had died, Clarice had spiraled out of control and thrown herself into her work with almost reckless abandon, clinging to a constant stream of activity as a lifeline, no matter how dangerous and menial the tasks. It was not long afterwards that she learned that Hannibal Lecter had been found in Europe. After the file had made its rounds through the office, shoved from hands to hands as if diseased, she had taken the case right away.

Jack Crawford would have felt shocked and betrayed if he had lived to see the choice Clarice had made to stay with Hannibal, but perhaps one day he might have understood. He would have understood the lure of a powerful figure that cherished her as much as he despised all else.

Crawford would not, however, have ever believed the sight that he would have seen now. The mismatched pair sat together on a sofa, teasing each other like an old married couple as in the next room, their godson opened his bright blue eyes for the first time and gurgled happily upon seeing his disbelieving father's face.

Hannibal rested his hand lightly on Clarice's knee as he kissed the hollow of her neck in an instinctive, tender gesture of affection. Crawford would not have gone so far as to think that Hannibal could have the capacity to drug her into such a state of seemingly genuine bliss. But it would have been easier than thinking that a human soul was capable of such change.

Crawford certainly would have responded much like Erik did when Hannibal discussed his new job, the next week.

"I have read of Clarice's success with her community theater but what occupation have you chosen to take?" Erik asked.

"We have more than adequate finances to last us the rest of our days."

"Which I am sure was true as well when you were 30 years of age. You could never stay idle for long."

"I am working at a small local institution as a psychologist for children."

Erik blinked. Hannibal looked at him with a smirk on his face that could almost be interpreted as gleeful.

"Despite the changes for the better that Clarice has wrought in you, I doubt that learning to jest was one of them, so I will assume that you are serious."

"Nothing could seem more unlikely, I realize. Which is why I originally assumed the position to hide from the law. But contrary to all reason, I found that I quite enjoyed it. The problems of children are simpler, and they don't lie as much as adults do."

Erik scoffed again but he no longer appeared disbelieving as he said, "Therefore I am sure you understand my reasons for telling Christine the truth about the two of you?"

"We would have greatly preferred to tell her personally."

"And when would that be? After the birth? After she had blessed you as her child's godfather? I've deceived her enough for a lifetime, and I would have felt responsible if she had not known."

Hannibal gave a great sigh. "We intended only the best, you must believe that."

"I do, but I also believe that you greatly underestimate her. Christine the girl turned and ran when confronted with something that she feared. Christine the woman is taking your wife shopping tomorrow for clothes for the baby."

"Heaven help us."

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"You don't enjoy shopping, do you, Clarice?"

"I can think of a few things I would rather be doing, some of which involve thumbscrews."

Christine laughed brightly. The instinctual maturity that seemed to settle upon new mothers like a thick cloak had not robbed her of her girlish happiness. "Tell me truthfully now. Is it the shopping that unnerves you or the fear that I am doing this to cover up my mistrust of you?"

"Both."

"Do you really think so little of me, Clarice? Would you believe that I would remember only your…and Hannibal's past and forget how you have helped us, and others, since then?"

"But Raoul…"

"What happened is as much your fault as it was mine Or Erik's. Or his own. I'm through with shoving the burden of blame onto others, and I won't have you taking it onto yourself."

"How have you changed so much, Christine?"

"Because of you, madam. That is one thing you can safely take credit for."

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Erik held a garish patchwork of blue, yellow, and pink cloth in his hands. As neither he nor Christine had had any means of knowing the sex of the child beforehand, they had prepared for each eventuality. The sight would have been humorous were it not for the unmistakable look of utter devotion in his eyes. The long skeletal fingers that had caused so much death and pain now moved to adjust the blanket around his child's face to keep him from getting chilled.

"Have you or Clarice ever thought about children?"

The question was unexpected and Hannibal looked up from his rather excellent brandy with a start. The surprise dissipated quickly from his expression and was replaced with wry humor.

"I wasn't under the impression that there was any thought involved. In this day and age, children are hardly something you can predict with any confidence."

Erik scoffed. "Do you expect me to believe that? You are the most knowledgeable doctor of the era. Surely you wouldn't be reduced to leaving things to chance."

Hannibal looked at his brandy glass thoughtfully. "No. I wouldn't." He put the glass down and sighed almost inaudibly before looking up at Erik. "The answer is no, Erik. The decision was Clarice's and I will respect it."

"May I ask why?"

Hannibal sat upright in his chair, leaning forward upon the cushion. "We are in many ways alike, Erik, but we will never be the same person. Some things…are best not remembered."

Erik nodded. His son shifted in his arms and his fingers gave to accommodate the movement. He winced slightly as the child's head pressed against the jagged scar on his left forearm, but he did not stir. "And what about the things in your lives that are worth remembering? And of those there are many." His voice was soft. "Do you ever regret that they will be forgotten?"

Hannibal seemed to consider this for awhile. "Yes. It is only natural. And no. The best part of our history has already been passed to more able hands." He looked up and the ghost of a smile appeared across his features. "Do you think that we would have expended so much effort on the two…three of you if we had not partially been motivated by selfishness? We saw in you the chance that I never had. And the chance that was robbed from Clarice by her inconceivable choice to stay with me. The chance to hold the adoration of the world in your hands. On that note, Mr. Eames, I understand that your wife has become quite the budding starlet at the Met."

The other man smirked. "That I cannot deny." At another movement from the bundle in his arms, Erik's eyes flew downwards to the face of his sleeping child. He made another completely unnecessary adjustment of the blanket and let the back of his fingers linger on the tiny cheek. "Nor can I deny that none of this would have ever happened without you. But that time I spent in your house—I truly hated you at times, I despised you. That is true as well." He sighed and looked up. "But in the end, I…thank you, Hannibal. I thank you, my friend."

Maroon eyes stared into amber ones, and at that moment they both realized that nothing more needed to be said.

In a swift movement, Hannibal got up from his chair and crossed over to father and son. Startled by the sudden movement, the baby awoke, his bright eyes blinking in the light. Hannibal Lecter's finger was not entirely steady as he lowered it to the child's face. The baby grabbed the finger in a tiny fist before promptly shoving it in his mouth. Too young to judge, too young to be afraid, the child gurgled happily under the gaze of the two giants he held in enthralled silence.

"What will you name him?" Hannibal said at last, quietly.

Erik looked deep into his son's eyes before leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead.

"Luc. For you have given us light."

FIN

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**A/N:** All similarities between the "Eames" alias and the famous Parisian/American operatic soprano Emma Eames are entirely coincidental. Really.

I had an unbelievably difficult time writing this final chapter. And it turned out that it wasn't only because I was working two jobs and I didn't want this story to end. When I showed a rough draft to my friend, she told me, "I know why you're having a hard time writing this, everyone's too damn _happy_."

Too true, my friend, but they deserved it.

Still though, I had mixed feelings as I selected "Complete" from the drop-down menu. On one hand, I am unbelievably glad about finally wrapping up a monstrous offspring that was originally supposed to be no more than 10 chapters. Goodness knows I'll have so much more free time now. On the other hand, heaven knows I will miss it.

But on the third hand, I don't forsee laying this story to rest anytime soon. I'm in the process of rewriting chapter-by-chapter to make the sketchy writing towards the beginning better. Rather than take this entire story down, I will only replace chapters. And since doesn't give notices to such activities, I will also be reposting on "unending-night dot com / fiction" if you would like to follow my undertaking.

Revisions will be significant, and the resulting story will hopefully be more coherent and probably a lot shorter. In fact, Chapter One is already up there now, go have a look! (after reviewing of course)

And now for some brief thanks. Thank you to all of my reviewers, but especially Fantome who has unerringly followed this tale from the very beginning. I believe she even put up with my four-month lapse between one of the chapters… All of your comments mean more to me than you will ever know. And to all of you lurkers and non-reviewing readers, I love you too for racking up the numbers of my hits counter. But as this is your last chance EVER to review, please do consider clicking on the little blue button on the bottom left. It won't take much time. :)

Enough rambling, I hope you enjoyed the story! See you all next time, I'm sure the muse won't stay away for long.


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